The Vault of Souls
by Merlyn Pyndragon
Summary: A master vampyre is responsible for the theft of Gwen's soul in the name of necromancy, and King Arthur must chase him to the cynical land of Wraith Marsh to get it back, his knights and loyal servant at his side. But in Wraith Marsh, nothing is as it seems, and the vampyre is hungry...
1. Night Stalker

**Yes, Merlin fans, I'm _back._ Though I never really left. c:**

**I'm not a Twilight fan, but I wanted to use those creatures in said series for this story, even though they're so highly thought of nowadays, almost to the point that they're getting _cliched_. Here, there are no romances that seem like they're not going to work out but do anyways because it makes the reader inexplicably happy – and not only because I don't know _how_ to write romance 8| **

**Just a heads up, this fic will be posted slowly because the storyline is a wee bit shaky, and I need time to remedy it. Seriously, it's like a wet noodle in a tempest...**

**Enough yammering and tongue-waggling. Enjoy The Vault of Souls.**

* * *

~1~ Night Stalker

Daphne the Dagger had waited about twenty minutes by the time Vraal dubbed the moment ripe to reveal himself. There was no real reason for the wait, except, perhaps, for the sole purpose of proving his patience, and finding out the contact's own.

With the skill and grace he and his kind were renowned for, Vraal dropped over the edge of the pillar that was only a part of the abbey ruins, holding on with pale hands that could crush a human skull as easily as a seasoned fruit. With the moon as his witness, he released the ivory marble and fell three stories to the grassy ground below, his liquid black cloak bellowing out like a monstrous bat's wings. He landed with the silence and stealthiness of a feline, not even his banshee-rag cape making a sound as his knees crouched to absorb the impact.

Daphne wasn't Vraal's target in any form other than being his newest employer. If she was, she would already be dead. In fact, if anyone wanted the blood or the coin of the woman, and had the gold, Daphne would be done for by now. That's because Vraal was the best.

Being from the Black Swamps, or Wraith Marsh as they are sometimes called, Daphne had lived her entire life glancing over her shoulder for the dark inhabitants of the vast bog. Her instincts were prime, almost inhuman, so despite Vraal's legendary skills, she managed to detect the assassin soon enough.

"I was afraid you wouldn't come," she said, squinting into the shadows of the ruins where Vraal stood coolly. "You vampyres are fickle creatures."

Vraal chuckled, and detected the shivers rattling the Dagger's spine. "Fickle, yes. But true to their word. Always."

"I have a contract for you." Daphne reached into her water-proof cloak, her black eyes constantly scanning the darkness for danger. As she did so, the distinctive clink of disturbed coin taunted the night.

"You have the contract, but not the gold," the assassin hissed, and his feline grin spread as Daphne flinched. The woman had clearly forgotten about the ears of vampyres: keener than a fox's.

"I have the gold right here—"

"Yes, but not enough!" Vraal stepped into the moonlight, his maroon hair glinting like blood. It was an unusual colour for a vampyre, for the tone of choice was usually black or ivory white.

The Dagger held a strong composure, standing tall despite her thundering heart. Vraal could hear it throbbing away. "This is only half of what I'm offering. You'll get the other half when the deed is done, and done properly."

Vraal hissed with laughter. "Ah, a sm_art_ one. Don't see too many of those, these days." Then he got curious, narrowing his indigo eyes inquisitively. "What is it you so desire, _mistress?_"

Relaxing slightly, but not lowering her guard, Daphne pulled out the rolled scroll. "A thief assignment." The vampyre was almost disappointed for a moment. "I want you to steal from the king."

The interest came back, full fledged. "Stealing? From the king? What could you possibly want from a king?"

"Something that you can get that others could not," the Dagger replied. "I've tried with three assassins. All failed, though they were miraculously not caught. They all came back to me, empty handed and claiming it impossible. I killed two of them," she added for emphasis, but Vraal was not fazed. "And now I turn to you. You are a blood sucker, in more ways than one, yet I can't afford to throw my money away to so many wannabes. You're expensive, but I'll save some gold if I just hire one success, rather than a thousand failures. Do you accept?"

The vampyre watched the one known as the Dagger calmly, contemplating. The woman knew what she was doing, for sure, else she would have run away by now or enabled Vraal to slip into some loophole and make away with all her gold, free of work. He liked his occupation, of course, but sometimes it's just fun to make a fool out of people.

Eventually, as Daphne started to sweat despite the icy night air, a demonic grin spanned Vraal's handsome face, revealing the twin canines sliding down from his upper jaw.

"When do I begin?"

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

Merlin had never seen Arthur so agitated. He watched with barely concealed amusement as the king paced an endless journey of distress around the room, sometimes before the fire, occasionally near the windows, other times in circles around the table, all the while biting his nails to the quick and running his hands through his hair. It was a wonder why he didn't fall apart at the seams altogether in a tangle of anxiety and dread.

"What if she doesn't like it?" he muttered to himself, chewing off all the nail on one finger and grazing the next. "What if she hates it?"

"Arthur, this is _Gwenevere_ we're talking about. She's not going to hate _anything_ you give her." Merlin's brow was creased, but he was smiling reassuringly. "I don't think you could even _make_ her hate anything you give her."

"What do you know?" snapped the king. "Have you ever tried to court a woman?"

"Er, well—"

"Am I doing it right?"

"...You're asking _me?_"

Arthur grimaced. "You're right." Like a restless bird in a cage, the king continued to flutter about in distress, which quickly made Merlin annoyed, annoyed enough to make him want to slap him.

"Arthur, _look_ at the damn thing! It's enough to make any woman swoon with happiness." This gift was so fitting for her, Merlin couldn't imagine why Arthur couldn't see it and stop clucking around like a restless chicken.

He sighed and helped himself to some of the wine left over from the king's dinner. "You know her, better than anyone else alive...You were sure this was the perfect gift only a few weeks ago! Why the sudden agitation?" He took a sip from the goblet, watching Arthur intently.

The king of Camelot looked to have abruptly walked into an invisible wall. He turned and stiffly placed his hands against the fireplace mantel, and stared into the snickering flames as though they hid great secrets.

He took a deep breath. "Gwenevere's pregnant."

Wine sprayed from Merlin's nose as he choked.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

Grateful for his durable, wyvern-hide boots, Vraal slowed from his ten mile run and topped the knoll a thousand paces from Camelot, not even breathing hard. His nose twitched to catch passing scents, ears pricked for danger. There were none, so he focused on the distant citadel with growing anticipation. Camelot was renowned, a glorious city, prosperous under its young king and new queen. Being so prosperous, it would have lots of wealth, and therefore lots of guards to protect it along with the city. It all meant that Vraal was up for a real challenge, one he hadn't been able to relish for years.

The sliver of the moon squinted reproachfully at the land as the vampyre mentally ran through his plans. There was only so much he could do, for even a master like him can't predict the position of the guards in a castle without magic. All he had was superhuman strength and four hundred years of experience. More often than not, however, that was more than enough.

"Retrieve the ruby, kill no one," the Dagger had said, handing over the weighty sack of coins. "Swear this to me, to uphold until the deed is done. Swear it!"

"By the blood moon and all-knowing stars, I hereby do swear to do your bidding until the deed is done," Vraal had vowed, tracing the pentagram over the place where his heart should be. He then bit his finger and drew the very same symbol on the stone of the abbey ruins with the black liquid that was his blood. "_Se noapte vegheze asupra ta, Doamna mea_." The night watch over you, my Lady_._

Daphne had pricked her own finger with her best dagger and added her blood to Vraal's, and the deal was sealed permanently. To break it meant death at the others' leisure.

Tonight, Vraal was prepared to hold said promise. Camelot was going to sleep, but the vampyre was just starting to rise. Now was the hour.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

"Arthur, I can't bloody believe it!" Merlin was bouncing from incredulous disbelief to limitless joy to ominous foreboding and back again with every passing moment. He was grinning widely but wringing his hands. "A baby, Arthur. _Your_ baby! I mean an actual _child_. An infant! This is incredible!"

"Yeah, incredible," replied the king softly, still watching the flames.

Merlin paused, stepping around to see more of Arthur's expression. "What's wrong?"

There was a flash of pain in the king's face. "I don't think I'm ready."

"Ready? Ready for what, a child?" Merlin now stood beside his master, leaning against the wall to see the fire light flickering warmly on his face. "What do you mean, not ready?"

"I'm twenty six years old, Merlin. Two years a king, ten years a man, no years a father." He finally tore his gaze from the flames, and looked at his servant, revealing his grief through his eyes. "I'm...afraid."

"Arthur, there's nothing to be afraid of," Merlin replied, smiling lightly, encouragingly. "No man is really prepared to be a father, not until they hold their child for the first time. You will know what to do, eventually, because it's in you, in your blood."

With the warlock's final words, Arthur's expression became solid and as unreadable as ever, and Merlin knew that he was returning to normal.

"Thank you, Merlin," Arthur said. "You are a good friend—" The servant grinned. "—Even if you don't know what you're talking about." The king hit him good-naturally on the shoulder and left him to heave an exasperated sigh alone.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

Vraal was sure that if he remained crouched and immobile on the battlements, the guards wouldn't see him. If he was to wave at them and dance a jolly Irish jig, they _still_ wouldn't see him. But he could play with his uncanny skill any other night. This night, he had a mission, a contract to fulfil.

Scaling the wall had been easy, even if it looked smooth to the untrained eye. He had covered about half the citadel, going from window to window, using ledges, gutters, cracks, anything that stuck out from the wall, watchful for restless sleepers. He had enough experience to know that alarms can travel quickly if left unchecked, and he wanted to keep the city asleep for his thievery – not that he couldn't handle a rowdy situation such as that: it's to minimize the chance of having to hurt someone to silence them, which could accidentally lead to killing them.

Eventually, he topped the last wall of battlements. The central courtyard of the citadel spread out below him. Though hidden in shadow, the horseman statue at the foot of the main stairs was sharp in Vraal's gaze. He scanned the inner windows facing the yard, counting the lit and disregarding the dark. By the snippets of information that the other failed assassins had passed onto Daphne and thereby to Vraal, King Arthur's chambers lies behind one of these windows. The vampyre had only to check a few before finding the correct one.

He clung to the sill with little effort, hanging over three stories above ground, cool as a cucumber. He peeked inside, his indigo eyes taking in the lay of the room. There was a fourposter bed, a couple of wardrobes, a changing screen, a fireplace, and a table on which lay a modest crown and the legendary sword, _Excalibur_, recognized by the distinctive, arcane characters graven on the sides of the blade. Both the sword and the crown indicated that this was a royal chamber.

Two men were talking near the hearth, a sandy-blonde and a raven-haired. Judging by their clothes, the blonde was the lord. It could be none other than King Arthur himself.

Vraal snorted. _This_ was their king? He didn't seem all that impressive. Handsome, yes, but not huge in musculature. The vampyre could have sworn all human leaders were big brutes, because that was what the species looked up to.

Doesn't matter. Vraal studied the two humans' faces, burning them into his memory. Suddenly, the king hit the other man lightly on the shoulder and walked towards a cabinet. The assassin upturned his hearing, an unnatural occurrence for mundanes, and he was able to penetrate the glass, to hear the voices inside.

"...Want you to return this," said the king, picking something up from the shelf of the cabinet and turning so his back was to Vraal. The assassin's nostrils flared curiously, but he dared not move to get a better view.

"Same place?" asked the other youth, the raven-haired. Both of their voices were muffled, seeing as they were being heard though glass, but very clear nonetheless. "Why bother taking it out at all? I'm sure it's safe down there."

"Because I need to see if it's just..._right_, is all. What does it matter to you?" Arthur suddenly tossed his burden at his servant, who fumbled with it before catching it gracelessly. Squinting, Vraal was able to see that it was some sort of necklace. The piece was a robin egg-sized ruby, ringed by gold wings that flared out as if to fly away. If he had a heart, it would be bursting with exhilaration. _That_ was his target. It fit the description perfectly.

"By my mother's head, this is the right thing, sire," said the dark-haired youth in reassurance, taking a set of keys from the king. "You have nothing to worry about, I swear it."

The servant was making for the door. The pair of them exchanged a few more words, but Vraal was already scaling the wall to find a way inside.

_Retrieve the ruby, kill no one._ That was the deal. Though Vraal liked a good slaughter, his honour was his life, his existence. Not but the power of Death himself could break his word.

"How fortunate for you, Camelot," the vampyre hissed to himself, finding an empty room and pick-locking the window. He slipped inside with not a whisper of sound, crossed the chamber and then put his ear against the door, all the while wondering how the other assassins could have failed. This was too easy! It was insulting how those posers dared to call themselves vampyres and be defeated by such a novice task.

He couldn't help but wonder what was so special about this ruby that Daphne the Dagger would go through so much trouble – and gold – to acquire. And how was it important to the king of high and mighty Camelot? It mattered little. It was not Vraal's concern. He was just a bit disappointed, that's all. This was too simple, and boring, for a master such as he.

Vraal had to wait until the servant finished promising to return the keys as soon as possible and then go down the corridor before emerging from the abandoned room. His keen ears caught every detail, from the sneeze emerging from the king's room, to the mouse pit-pattering in the wall, to the servant's steady, strong heartbeat around the corner.

With the grace and silence to make a shadow envious, Vraal tailed the youth.

* * *

They had only turned around two corners before the vampyre began to close the distance. Adrenaline pounded through his veins as he neared, the servant so unsuspecting, so helpless, so...alone.

The youth passed near a balcony and then went left to descend the stairs. As he reached the bottom, Vraal waited on the stone rail above, poised like a gargoyle, muscles tense as if to spring. The servant passed below, the vampyre dropped—

* * *

**Oh _dear_, it seems that I have run out of space...monitor space...euh...**

***shifty look spreads to foxy grin* **

**Cliffies. Mwa. Ha. _Haaa_.**

**I could ask you to review, but I won't. You're all intelligent beings of exceeding capabilities; you have the skill and right to decide whether if I'm worthy or not of your praises and criticisms. Again, I will say that update dates (...) are unbeknownst to me (what a great word, unbeknownst) so keep an eye out if you're at all curious about our favourite warlock, and of his predatory stalker... **


	2. The Envy of Shadows

~2~ The Envy of Shadows

—And caught himself as a pair of patrolling guards marched in sync from beneath the balcony. Vraal pulled himself back over the rail as the servant nodded politely at the guards and continued on, stealing the vampyre's chance.

Silently cursing, yet relishing the challenge, Vraal made himself invisible to the two men as they trooped up the stairs and passed the balcony by ducking into an alcove. When stillness fell, he revealed himself to the stone walls once more and vaulted over the rail, dropping to the lower level and landing like a cat.

He evaded all others who passed as he closed the space between himself and his prey, slipping in and out of the shadows of the citadel corridors. Patrolling guards were oblivious to the prowling night stalker, but they still prevented Vraal from making his move on the servant.

Descending a spiral staircase, the vampyre blended with the darkness cast by a pillar as the raven-haired youth suddenly and inexplicably turned around. Only Vraal's quick reflexes and sharp hearing saved him – he had heard the slight change in gait prior to the man's turning.

The servant stood there for so long, scanning the hall suspiciously with his sapphire eyes, that Vraal soon began to feel uneasy. With his unease grew his eagerness. A prey more aware of the world around him. That meant a greater challenge. What fun.

Finally, the youth turned his back and set off, his pace a bit quicker than before. Vraal could hear the hastened heartbeat, and felt his canines prick his lower lip. With a flash of his anger, they retracted, still sharp but the same length as his other teeth.

_Retrieve the ruby, kill no one._

_That was the agreement with Daphne, my oath_, he thought sternly. _Uphold it_.

The servant turned down another flight of stairs, into a lower level less used by the castle's inhabitants from the looks of it. Vraal easily kept pace, and soon only ten strides remained between him and his prey. There were no guards for the whole length of the passage. He crouched in the shadows of a waist-high stone brazier, as inconspicuous as a rat, while the youth stopped before a great door, hand poised with the key before the lock. The servant slowly glanced over his shoulder, then shook his head, impatient with himself, and unlocked the door.

Vraal brought out a white cloth from his cloak, bundled with herbs and already prepared for the deed.

_Retrieve the ruby, kill no one._

The door was opened to a new corridor. The servant stepped through. The vampyre detected his elevated heart rate.

_Retrieve the ruby._

He stepped from the shadows of the brazier. The youth suspected nothing.

_Kill no one._

He entered the corridor on feather feet, indigo eyes drilling into the back of the servant's skull.

_Kill no one._

The youth began to turn just as Vraal enveloped him in his ebony cloak, covering his mouth and nose with the white cloth. The servant immediately started to struggle and squirm, but, like all prey, he wasn't strong enough to break the hold of a vampyre. _Unlike_ all prey, however, he didn't start to collapse from the sleep-inducing herbs bundled in the cloth around his mouth. Vraal could tell that the boy had remarkably prevented himself from breathing in at the last second. This really was a unique case.

_No matter, no matter,_ he thought with a malicious chuckle. _All must breathe eventually._

The servant tried to grunt for help, but of course, it was fruitless. He kicked back at Vraal and clawed at his embracing arms, but the vampyre calmly ignored the dull pain without so much as a blink. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the youth yielded and inhaled, and though he struggled still, he grew gradually more and more feeble with every panicked thrash.

"Shhhhh," Vraal hissed soothingly into his ear. "Shhhh, it's all right, lad." The servant bucked once more in a vain attempt to get free, but as the vampyre hushed him a final time, his body fell slack, and he slumped lifelessly in his arms.

Vraal gently placed the youth down and turned him over, his nostrils flaring. In less than a fly's twitch, the amulet of the much-desired ruby was out of his prey's pocket and into his own. The deed was done. No one was killed. The vampyre found himself unable to leave, however. He stared down at the defenceless servant, not at his face, but at his neck. With vision that put a hawk's to shame, he could see the strong, regular pulse beating innocently away.

He tore his gaze from it, cursing his wavering discipline. Now was not the time.

He picked up the servant from beneath his back and under his knees, lifting him as though he were not but sack of fluff. The assassin could feel that he was as skinny as a sapling, but strong and fit. His nostrils flared again, breathing in his human scent.

Then the Hunger came for him again, heavier than ever.

Even as he fought himself, his canines extended smoothly from his upper jaw, and his mouth salivated. The rumbling of an unfed stomach did not come from his belly as it would every other creature, but from his whole being.

Vraal cursed the youth, cursed his extreme senses and cursed the haunting Hunger. He dimmed his smell as much as he could, but the delicious odour radiating from the healthy servant was an unbeatable lure.

_Kill no one._

_Maybe...just a taste_, he thought, glancing down at the prey in his arms, helpless, ill-fated. _These blood bags have a lot in them. What's one bite or two?_

_Everything_, he answered himself. One bite was all he needed to go into a frenzy, and he would drain the servant dry without even realizing it until it was too late. It was the price of his existence, the price of immortality.

It was amazing how powerful the Hunger was this time. Even as Vraal carried the youth down the hall frantically for a hiding place, he felt his face distort, become less humanoid and more like the demon he really was.

_Retrieve the ruby, kill no one_, he thought to himself, catching sight of a broom cupboard just down the hall. It seemed so far away! _Kill no one._ He hastened towards it. _Kill no one!_

Vraal shoved the youth into the small cupboard with a vengeance, disregarding the snap of breaking broom sticks. He slammed the door shut and threw down the latch before leaning his back against it, gritting his sharpened teeth. Normally, he would have found a prey such as this a bed to sleep in, as to confuse him when he woke up. Not this time. This time, the Hunger was too much. If that broom cupboard wasn't there, Vraal would have been gorging himself on servant blood by now. It wouldn't have been pretty.

Vraal felt control trickle back to him with the absence of the tempting scent. Unfortunately, if he even so much as thought about the memory of the human's aroma, he felt his canines stab out again. What, exactly, was it that made the youth so alluring? He was just a servant boy, must be no older than twenty five. No one special. Never, in the four hundred years that he had haunted the night, had anyone been so tempting.

But that added to the list of things that had never happened in four hundred years. He had never come so close to breaking a vow, to shattering such a sacred oath. Not once has his honour been so precarious in the balance. Suddenly, it all became clear why the other assassins had failed. Their oaths were no less treated with utmost respect as Vraal's was. If this servant boy had the key, or was with the king, who carried all the keys, then getting the necklace would have been impossible if its hiding place was unknown. Even waiting for an opportune moment wouldn't have been ideal, not with such a delicious-smelling temptation.

Vraal made a mental note to up his price for the Dagger.

Summing up the whole experience entirely, the assassin decided that this probably wasn't worth the gold, or the trouble. Not with his honour on the line.

_This had better been worth my _while_, at least_, he grumbled inwardly, and with one more furtive glance at the broom cupboard, he blended with the shadows and melted from existence.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

Arthur flopped himself into a chair and stared vacantly into nothing. He barely heard his servant promise to return the keys as soon as possible before he departed, closing the door behind him.

He sat there, silent but for a single, unforeseen sneeze, and lost himself in his thoughts.

Half an hour passed, but Merlin did not come back. The king wasn't worried, for his servant was often tardy – more so than he cared to admit; however, as another half hour crawled by and the youth still didn't return, the trickle of annoyance became a torrent.

He was tense already! He didn't have the patience to deal with this lateness!

_He probably just forgot to return the keys and went straight to bed_, Arthur thought flatly. _Lazy buffoon_.

Gwenevere would be expecting him soon at the royal suite, but Arthur wanted to give Merlin a good slap about the face before going to her. He strapped his sword to his waist, as habit, and departed the room.

He knocked before entering the quarters of Gaius, the court physician and Merlin's guardian.

"Sire," greeted the old man from his place at the work bench.

"Good evening, Gaius," the king replied, bowing his head formally. "I was wondering if that idiot—if Merlin had returned here."

The physician paused. "No, I'm afraid he hasn't."

Arthur blinked. He hadn't expected that. "Are you sure? Perhaps he slipped past you to—"

"I've been here the whole time, sire. I'm sorry, but he has not come back." Gaius frowned. "I thought he was with you."

Arthur turned away. If he wasn't here, that could only mean he was in one of two other places. The treasury, where the necklace, Gwen's gift, was to be stored, or the tavern.

As though reading his roiling thoughts, Gaius lifted an eyebrow and leaned on his elbows towards the king from his seat at the table. "I'm sure he didn't go to the tavern, sire. He's taken your threats to heart, trust me."

Arthur left the quarters then. _Fine. I'll check the treasury_.

Actually, there were two treasuries. One had the city's wealth from taxes, all of which would be _returned_ to the city by means of protection, management, and reparations. The other treasury, the one Arthur was heading for now, had personal wealth, family heirlooms and trophies. Merlin doesn't like going down there, but he never said why. Arthur had enquired many times, yet the servant, stubborn, always refused to sate his curiosity.

Only he, the king, had the keys to the main door leading to that personal treasury, so when he saw it open, he felt rage bubbling to the surface. Merlin has been careless in the past, but not like this! Anyone could waltz right in and take what they want, for if _this_ door had been left open, so too must have the second, the one of the treasury itself.

"MERLIN!"

_Merlin...erlin...in_, the corridor mocked, the only reply.

Arthur stormed down the hall to the end, where the last door, reinforced with metal latticework, stood sentinel. He reached for the handle and yanked mightily, expecting it to open with ease. He was surprise to feel his shoulder pull in protest. The door was shut fast.

"_Merlin?_" He pounded on the door with his fist, simmering impatience gritting his teeth and clenching his jaw. Still no reply. He knocked again, and suddenly felt really foolish.

_Gaius was wrong. He must have gone to the tavern_, thought he furiously, and retreated from the treasury corridor, closing the great door behind him. He commenced the journey down the hall back to his own chambers, and had only just began thinking of the most foul chores possible to punish the insolent servant with when he heard a strange sound. It was like clicking wood staffs, but their movements were restricted.

He whirled around inquiringly, glancing from one side of the hall to the other with only his eyes.

"Who's there?"

There was a broom cupboard just down the way. With his demand of recognition, the door of it shuddered once, twice. Then there was a banging sound, as though someone were knocking from the inside.

"What the hell—?" The king approached it cautiously, coming within ten paces before hesitating.

"Oi! Someone help me!"

Puzzled, Arthur stepped closer. "Merlin, is that you?"

"Arthur! I'm stuck, let me out!"

"What the hell are you _doing_ in there?" He made no move to unlock the cupboard door.

"Hiding from the Boogie Man," the servant snapped flatly.

"...You have some explaining to do, Merlin."

"Sure, I'll tell you what happened as soon as someone tells me."

"Huh?" Curiosity finally won out and Arthur lifted the latch. The door swung out as Merlin kicked it, forcing the king to dodge out of the way. The servant toppled out in a cascade of brooms and pails.

Merlin sighed with relief as he untangled himself from the chaos and stood, dusting himself off. He straightened, then suddenly put a hand to his head and wavered alarmingly. Before he fell over, Arthur lunged forward to catch him automatically.

"What happened?" the king demanded, setting Merlin down on the ground.

"...I can't remember."

"What?"

The servant shook his head, blinking, hand still at his temple and gazing sightlessly as though searching for a memory in the air. "...I can't remember anything. Just coming down here, preparing to unlock the door, and then suddenly waking up in the broom cupboard with a headache from Hades." He frowned. "There are snatches of memory, but—"

"Describe them."

"Well...There's a smell. A sickly, sort of...nauseatingly sweet smell. Before that, I remember feeling unsettled about something, I wasn't sure why, but it was as though someone was following me." He shook his head again. "But I didn't hear a thing. It's impossible to follow anyone here without being heard."

"You've tried?"

Merlin gave him a look.

"Just...go on."

"But that's it. I can't recall anything else, but—the ruby!" The servant frantically patted himself down, checking all his pockets several times over, then scanning the interior of the cupboard. Arthur had already begun massaging his eyes by the time Merlin ruffled through the mess of brooms.

"You lost it."

"I didn't _lose_ it! Someone _stole_ it!"

"Aye, but it was on _your_ person when it was stolen, so it's _your_ fault."

"It wouldn't have been stolen if there were more guards around."

"So you're saying you need protection for every little task? Can't handle a few things yourself?"

"If you're calling me a coward—"

"Yes, I am."

"Then rot in hell you—"

"Is everything all right, sire?" Two guards slowed from rushing down the hall, concerned at the raised voices.

Arthur stood and turned to them. "Sound the alarm. Seal the gates and prepare the search parties. We have an intruder."

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

Vraal slipped into the trees with barely a whisper, and swiftly located the place of rendezvous, where Daphne the Dagger was already waiting.

"You have it," she said trying not to sound eager and stepping from the shadows as if Vraal couldn't already see her.

"You doubted me." The vampyre smirked, hiding the disgruntlement he felt from the nearly-disastrous mission. He had come _that_ close to shattering the most sacred of oaths, and he wasn't about to let Daphne off lightly. He felt the ruby necklace in his pocket.

"How can I not? A master who boasts is a master prone to failure. Let me see it."

"Have you the gold?"

Daphne chucked a bulging pouch of coins at the assassin impatiently, and the vampyre tossed her the necklace before snatching the pouch from the air. The Dagger held the ruby up to the moonlight, a flare of satisfaction and, strangely, peace, in her eyes. Then she frowned.

"It's not full."

"Full?"

"It is missing a soul."

Vraal frowned. "It is missing a soul. It's also missing a heart and a brain and both kidneys. What of it?"

"I need you to fill it."

"Fill it? With what?"

"Stop playing games! Go back to Camelot and put it around someone's neck. It will take their soul, but make sure that it is a _strong_ soul...There's twice what I've given you in price if you succeed."

The vampyre rolled his eyes and snatched the necklace back. "There's that 'if' again. I shall do it, and I shall succeed, but not tonight."

"Fine. Tomorrow. But the same conditions apply – but for the soul you take, kill no one."

"...Understood, _Doamna mea_."

* * *

**_Sinister forces are at work!_ Lock your doors and hide your daughters and protect the chocolate...!**

**Sorry about that 0_o**


	3. Faces Unveiled

**I've fixed the storyline so it's not so flimsy like I mentioned before. It's more of a broomstick in the breeze now :) A sturdy broomstick...**

**Wow. What a terrible metaphor. I'm sorry.**

* * *

~3~ Faces Unveiled

They never found the thief, of course. He had struck almost an hour before Arthur set out to look for Merlin, and so was long gone by then. What was strange was that only the necklace with the ruby piece was taken. The keys in Merlin's possession, after all, went to the royal treasury. What thief would turn up his nose at such an opportunity?

Whether it was the servant's fault or not that his gift to Gwen was stolen, Arthur found himself unable to blame his oldest friend. Things could have turned out a lot worse. Merlin could have been killed, for example.

"Are we going after him?" asked the servant, finishing polishing Arthur's ceremonial armour. Doing anything normal made him feel better about the night before, so he worked.

"And start where, exactly?" The king stared dully out the window at the rain.

"I don't know. We always find some way," Merlin said cheerfully. Then he cursed as he dropped the newly-shined greaves.

"Why don't you listen for rumours at your favourite tavern?"

Merlin glowered, exasperated. "You're just never going to let that go, are you?"

"Never."

With a final harrumph, the servant piled all of the armour into his arms and left, nearly walking into Gwenevere on his way out.

"My lady." Merlin bowed gracefully, dropping the greaves again with a raucous clatter.

"Merlin, how many times must I ask you not to do that?" asked the queen, but she was smiling.

The servant straightened, grinning. "I'm sorry. They just fall out of my hands. I've got butter fingers."

"_Merlin_." Gwen laughed, a clear, beautiful sound.

Laughing lightly with her, the servant departed, taking the greaves. At the last moment he remembered the big news in the form of a tiny new life, but the door was already closed between him and the monarchs, and so he left without a word. In the armoury, he deposited the greaves and wondered what they were going to name the unborn child.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

"So this man swears to have seen the thief?" Arthur stood before the Council with an air of uncertainty. The man in question was slight, mouse-like and timid in appearance. He was a tanner's apprentice, little known in the city.

"Aye, my lord," replied Sir Leon, bowing lightly in confirmation. "He said he was going to the well to fetch water for his ailing mother when he saw a figure scaling the walls."

"Scaling the walls?" Arthur asked, blinking. He kept his face expressionless.

Leon was about to reply, but instead he nodded at the tanner. The mousy man stood forward.

"He was like a spider, your majesty," he said quietly, but at the king's look, he broadened his voice. "He climbed every obstacle and avoided every guard. I'd never seen anything like it." He hesitated, licking his lips. "I followed him as best I could, but he topped the battlements and vanished into the inner walls of the citadel."

"And why didn't you tell anyone?"

The tanner shifted uncomfortably, twirling his cap in his hands. "My mother is ill, sire. She's been having hallucinations, sire. I was worried that I had caught her illness and was seeing things, sire." He swung his hands out to the sides for a moment before continuing the twirling of his hat. "I didn't think anyone would believe me."

Arthur held out his hands, calming the youth. "It's all right, tanner. I believe you."

There were a few grunts and twitters of surprise from the Council, but with a reproachful stare from the king, they fell silent. "I just need more description." He turned back to the youth. "What did this figure look like?"

"Well, he...he was wearing a dark cloak, black, I suppose. It was night, and the moon was but a sliver, so—"

"Go on."

The tanner cleared his throat. "He was lean, precise in his movements...and he had red hair."

Arthur started inexplicably. "You didn't see his face?"

"No, he was climbing the whole time. But, he didn't seem..."

"...Didn't seem what?"

Again the tanner coughed. "He didn't seem..._human_, sire."

Now there were barely suppressed chortles of derision from all around.

"Silence!" Arthur snapped, and the calm and chill of an abandoned tomb befell the throne room. The Council was surprised to hear the king use such a tone. "Does the tanner's description remind you of anything, Merlin?" Arthur demanded of his servant, standing not too far away by a pillar.

Blushing despite himself, Merlin replied, "I remember nothing. The thief probably attacked from behind." Embarrassed, he looked at his feet.

Arthur turned his attention back on the tanner apprentice. "You're sure he had red hair? That he wasn't wearing a red hood, or perhaps a hat?"

The youth swallowed. "No, sire. I'm positive it was hair. Maroon hair."

The king tilted his head back, suddenly weary. "I see."

Now the crowed buzzed with puzzlement. Merlin desperately wanted to blurt a question, but he held his tongue.

"I need to think. Council's dismissed..._Now_."

Curious and disgruntled mutters went unnoticed by the king as he turned away, fingering his chin, brow furrowed. The tanner, unsure, ended up following the crowd from the room. Merlin nearly left too, but, because he'd spent seven years figuring Arthur out, he knew that this was one of those times when he was supposed to stay. Queen Gwenevere remained as well, and she put a questioning hand on the king's shoulder.

When all fell still at last, Arthur finally spoke.

"His name is Vraal."

"What?" Gwen and Merlin asked in unison.

Arthur sighed, massaging his eyes. "Only a vampyre could climb these walls like the tanner described. But most of these foul creatures are black- or white-haired. Only a chosen few have red."

"How do you know this?" asked Merlin.

"Vampyres are assassins. Thugs and thieves. I am a king – I have to know about them if I'm to be prepared for them." Unsettled, Arthur sat on the throne and refused to look at the others, biting his lip.

"Then how do you if it's this...Vraal?"

"Vraal is the master of all he does. He's well known amongst his kind as the best of the best. He can do anything, if given the right price." He turned to his servant. "I'm actually very surprised you weren't found drained white of blood and dead as dirt." Arthur probably felt worse than Merlin at those words. He can't even begin to imagine what he would have done if he'd found his friend like that. He especially felt disgusted at what he'd said to him the day before. Merlin had miraculously survived an attack from a vampyre, and though he couldn't recall the encounter, waking up in a broom cupboard devoid of memory was never very comforting.

"What do you propose, then, sire?" asked Merlin.

"What else? We'll hire a vampyre hunter. Vraal may have stolen only one thing, but the fact that he stole from royalty _and_ that he's a wanted criminal stacks words against him. We shall spare no expense."

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

Gwenevere dismissed her handmaiden that night with a smile and a thanks, and then sat before the mirror, brushing her hair absentmindedly. Predictably, as what was happening every day for the past several, she thought about the baby. It was still too small to be noticed by anyone other than herself, but a thick mist of trepidation prevented her from seeing logic and made her think that everyone could see, haunting her with self-consciousness and pressure.

_What if it isn't male?_ she kept asking herself. _What if it isn't strong enough? What if it_ dies?

History wasn't always easy on queens, many being beheaded by enraged kings when the child is either female or stillborn. Of course, Arthur would _never_ do that to her, but that just made Gwen all the more determined to give him a strong male heir. It would also convince those still sceptical about Arthur's choice of queen that she was indeed fit for the throne.

Gwen sighed and placed her brush down. She was preparing to go meet Arthur, the visits becoming slightly more tense because of the small heart growing in her belly like a miracle, but then she shivered. Pulling her shawl closer about her shoulders, she glanced towards where the open window invited in a chilling breeze, the veil curtains bellowing like ghostly spectres. She stood and closed it, wondering how her handmaiden could have been so negligent, not that she felt any vehemence towards the girl for it. She still found it awkward to have a servant of her own when she had spent her whole life being one.

Sitting back down, she took up the brush again, only to notice a red glitter poking out from beneath a handkerchief. Curious, she pulled it out and saw that it was a necklace with a robin egg-sized ruby framed by golden wings. It was beautiful.

_Where did it come from? It's certainly not mine, and not likely Joanna's._

Nevertheless, Gwen felt the inclination to put it over her head, but as it settled on her breast, she suddenly felt very strange...

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

Vraal stepped out from the cover of the bed curtains and pulled the necklace from over the unconscious queen's head. His ears perked to hear the returning servant girl, and he hastened back to the window. The door opened just as he crouched on the sill, and he glance back with a fiendish grin, startling the handmaid, before dropping away into the night. He did not get far enough to yet be unaware of the horrified scream that emerged from the queen's chambers a few seconds later.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

Merlin raced around the corner, heart as fast as a hummingbird's, leaving the handmaiden Joanna with Gwenevere. His strides lengthened as his shock melted and urgency pushed him to his limits.

Arthur, where's Arthur?

He saw the king at the end of the hall, speaking with Sirs Gwaine and Elyan, giving a short bark of laughter before they turned the bend.

"Arthur!" Merlin yelled, reaching the corner. As he went to turn, his feet kept going forward by the power of inertia, while his body tried to remain in place. The result: he was left sprawled face down on the floor, tongue bitten from hitting his jaw and face red with chagrin.

He pushed himself up, groaning, just in time to see Arthur roll his eyes, Elyan grimace, and Gwaine withhold a chortle of amusement.

"What the hell are you doing, Merlin? What's going on?" the king demanded.

Merlin told him. Arthur blanched.

* * *

After the knights calmed the handmaiden, Joanna, enough, she managed to sputter that a strange, red-haired man had leaped out the window just as she entered the room, and she found Queen Gwenevere lying prone on the floor, her eyes open but empty of life

Merlin had seen those eyes; there were no irises. All was white, white as a blind hermit's.

Arthur, much to Merlin's admiration (for he himself was ready to spiral into panic), managed to hold a calm composure even as he sat by his lover's side, holding her hand and whispering in her ear, as though to revive her. She was alive, by her heartbeat and warm flesh, but she responded to no stimulus, not even smelling salts. Gaius, the court physician, was at a loss.

"It's not a coma, nor has she been poisoned or knocked unconscious. She is not asleep, but not aware of anything, either. It is like her very soul is gone, leaving an empty husk," he said. "But at least she's alive." Judging by the look that remained on Arthur's face, the king was not the slightest bit appeased.

"How is this possible? What kind of magic could do such a thing?" Arthur blurted, sorrow raw in his voice. "Gwenevere..." He tried shaking her, in vain, and then ignored Merlin's comforting hand as it fell on his shoulder.

"How it is possible is not known," said Sir Leon, approaching cautiously. "But at least we do know the culprit behind it."

Merlin could almost feel Arthur's rising anger through the hand resting on his shoulder.

"Vraal," the king growled, teeth bared.

* * *

**Dun dun duuuun. D8**


	4. Dragon Teeth

**Some of you 'Eragon' fans may be wondering why I called this story, 'The Vault of Souls.' Reason: I don't know XD But every time I read it, I shudder for some reason. Just...****_vault_**** of ****_souls_**** *shivers* ;)**

**I may change it, just so you know...**

* * *

~4~ Dragon Teeth

"Bain Beton Browsten, vampyre hunter and eradicator extraordinaire, at your service, sire!" The rotund but robust Northerner removed his tall hat with an extravagant flourish and bowed deeply, his bulbous nose and imperial moustache nearly brushing the floor. The raven on his shoulder squawked indignantly and flapped to retain its balance, its disgruntled caw reverberating around the throne room.

Arthur blinked but forced a welcoming smile, all the while warning Merlin with his eyes not to laugh. The warlock grinned widely and refrained from giving a mocking finger wave. It was fun to watch Arthur squirm so.

"I also exterminate trolls, goblins, smags, wiskits, humper'nickles and an assortment of zoots. I can fix any tool, thump any fool, and catch me in a lie, take my boots." Bain Beton Browsten bowed once more. "I am also a humble bard, as you may have noticed – or, rather, a bard in training. Shall I recite a ballad for you, sire?"

"No, no, no, it's _quite_ all right." Arthur dropped his hands of refusal docilely. He just managed to stop himself from mouthing to his servant, '_What's a zoot?_' "Just how good are you? Without the rhymes, if you please."

Bain grinned almost as widely as Merlin. His voice lowered cynically, his raven cawing and bobbing its head. "Have you ever gotten close enough to a dire boar to hear her suckling her piglets, sire?" By the king's expression, he had not. "Do you know which spine to touch on a cockatrice to leave it helplessly immobile? How is it that one tells the difference between the sustaining rock oriental and the lethal mountain lily? What is a banshee's greatest weakness?" The grin spread wider, not arrogantly, but proudly. "I remember all that I learn, sire. My forte, however, is the service you so desperately require." He bowed deeply a third time, sending his raven flapping irritably again. "The hunting of the night children."

At first, Arthur seemed at a loss of what to say. He opened his mouth, but whatever he was going to say was swallowed and he said something else. "So you believe you could find the vampyre Vraal."

Suddenly, the jovial soul that was Bain grew grim. "So it _is_ him, is it." It wasn't a question.

"You know him."

Gone were the gleaming monk eyes and pudgy-faced smile. "I have been hunting for him for over twenty years."

"You are a vampyre hunter, but you cannot catch _this_ vampyre?" put out Sir Leon suddenly.

Bain looked darkly at him, but not vehemently. "My methods are foolproof, sound tight, but it requires one thing – the vampyre's touch. Vraal D'Angeral is the greatest assassin his kind, and ours, has ever known. He was trained by the best, and then he killed the best without so much as a twitch of an eye. As honourable as a knight, if not more so, and more dangerous than a ravenous werewolf on the full-bellied moon, he is here and gone with the swiftness of the eastern wind. He leaves no trail, not even for me. Until now." Bain looked back up to the king. "How much will you pay me, your highness?"

The sudden solemness of the bouncy man left Arthur speechless again for a few moments. Then he snapped out of it. "Whatever it takes. We must take this creature down before he does any more harm." His eyes flicked towards his servant for a second. "There has already been one too many close calls."

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

Merlin waited quietly at the door while Arthur knelt by Gwen's bedside, trying not to listen to whatever comfort the king was attempting to give her, though they all knew that it would make no difference.

"She is eating, at least," said Gaius softly, coming up behind Merlin. "But I can do nothing to make her speak or react to anything in any way. Her mind left with her soul."

Sighing, Merlin looked away from the king's despaired expression. Arthur knew what had occurred to his wife and queen, and it was remarkable that he was able to hold himself together at all.

_Necromancy_.

The very thought chased shivers down Merlin's spine. Gaius had assured him that there was little wiggle room for any other type of magic when it came to soul trapping. The aged physician said, though his knowledge on the topic was limited, that a necromancer needed souls to commit his terrible deeds, and a vessel to hold the souls in. When Gaius mentioned the latter fact, Merlin had paled in realization. That ruby necklace, the one meant to be Gwenevere's gift, stolen by the very same vampyre that they were about to track down, must have been that vessel.

When Merlin had mentioned this to Arthur earlier, the king immediately ordered the merchant he had purchased the necklace from to be found, but the seller had been gone for several weeks. It was likely that the man had little knowledge, if any, of the black magic he was carrying anyway.

Swallowing past the stiff lump in his throat, Merlin watched as Arthur bowed his head, hands clasping one of Gwen's, shoulders trembling. "We can't lose her, Gaius," the servant croaked, and he coughed lightly as his voice cracked. "She's not just a queen, she's—"

"I know, Merlin, I know." The physician left just as Arthur stood. The warlock straightened, tried to speak, but found himself dumb. He dropped his gaze as the king wiped his eyes and then strode past him, out of the room.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

By dawn, the party of seven had saddled their horses in the main courtyard and were ready to commence their journey. A sympathetic crowd had gathered to see them off, but were silent in the crisp morning air.

Merlin watched as Arthur glanced mournfully once more at the window of Gwenevere's private chambers. They had no alternative but to track down Vraal to retake what he had stolen, first the ruby necklace, then the queen's very soul, for this was clearly not a ransom plot. If it was, there would have been a note demanding payment by now. Arthur loathed to leave his lover's side, but he knew his duty was to catch the vampyre and bring him, kicking and screaming, to justice.

All they had was a strange vampyre hunter who claimed to be able to find anyone, no matter where they were in the world. Handy, potentially, if not a bit unorthodox.

The king sighed through his nose and tore his gaze away from Gwen's window, then mounted his roan stallion, Noble, and walked it to stand between Gwaine and Leon. He turned to Bain Browsten, who was tacking up his steed near where Sirs Percival and Elyan waited grimly. "All right, hunter, how...? Uh...Is that a mule?"

Bain finished tightening the girth of the old, raggedy pack animal, and said, not looking around, "Yes, he is, your majesty. A good-natured, sturdy old mule. His name's Clarence. Actually, they're _all_ named Clarence, every one of them, though most people don't know that. Mules are my lucky animals, see – granted, I go through about three a year, but they're lucky all the same, like a rabbit's foot...though a rabbit's foot isn't lucky, not for the rabbit. Clarence may look like he's ready to collapse from the middle out, but he can run forever, if there's something in it for him."

The whole time Bain was speaking, Arthur's eyebrows were getting closer and closer together in bewilderment, and by the end he looked like a confused boarhound. Merlin just managed to restrain himself from snickering aloud.

"Well, then uh..." The king cleared his throat. "Prove your worth, sir. You said you just needed your supplies to find Vraal." He waited expectantly.

"My supplies, and _him_." Bain pointed at Merlin. "You're jacket, please, young man."

The warlock stared at the hunter strangely. He glanced at Arthur, who, though also puzzled, nodded. Just as he pulled his arms from the sleeves of his tawny jacket, Bain's raven descended from its circling above and landed on his horse's head, glowering at him with beady black eyes.

He dismounted from his grey steed and passed the coat on to the hunter, who took it and brought something from his own pocket. Merlin peeked at the object, or objects, curiously, but jumped as the raven cawed and flapped passed his ear.

Bain chuckled as the warlock glared, annoyed, at the cheeky bird. "Don't worry about her, young master. She's not as nasty as she appears." He opened his hand and revealed what he held. "Dragon teeth, from a specimen no older than fifty. It's all right, boy! The creature was dead from scale rot when it was discovered."

Merlin hastily hid his dark expression and blushed, stepping back to his grey mare.

"What is it you're getting at, Bain?" asked Arthur, after tearing his puzzled look from his servant.

Bain smiled. "Only a chosen few know the true value of dragon teeth, and even fewer actually possess any. Now that the dragons are deemed extinct, more or less, theses beauties are about as common as cartwheeling weasels. I was _extremely_ fortunate to find these."

"Your _point_, Bain."

"All in due time, your majesty. As I was saying, few know what these can do. With luck that could only be granted by some benevolent deity, I was granted with such a gift as this. For you see, dragon teeth, when carved with the right runes, have the capability of finding _anything_. In a way, they are like hounds, but with a nose a thousand times better in strength and reliability. Of course, also like hounds, they need something, a scent, to follow. Hence this jacket." He lifted up Merlin's coat with a triumphant smile.

Gwaine coughed politely in interruption. "Erm, I hate to be the one pickin' nits here, but...we're looking for _Vraal_, not Merlin."

Bain ignored him, and cupped the teeth with the jacket. "Vraal attacked you three nights prior, correct, young man?" he asked the servant, who nodded stiffly. "Very fortunate, you are. Do you know why you're standing here before me and not lying bloodless in some hole?" When he got no reply, he continued. "It is because whoever hired Vraal did not wish anyone to die for the stolen object. Why that is remains a mystery. Of course, there is always a chance that he was working under his own flag when he took that valuable, but again, you would be dead and buried days ago. Plus, vampyres are not known for necromancy – there is someone else behind this, of that, there is no doubt." He pretended not to notice as the servant paled. When he went to interrupt, Bain pressed on. "But that's not what's important. What's important is that _you_ are the key to finding this monster...Well, your _jacket_ is, anyway."

"But—"

"We're wasting time, Bain," Arthur growled. Sensing his master's impatience, Noble stamped a hoof and tossed his head, whickering softly.

"We shall commence the search, sire, but not from here." Bain mounted his watery-eyed mule and nudged it into motion. There was no cheering from the small crowd as the party departed from the citadel and eventually the rest of the city. They passed over the final drawbridge and travelled the road for half a mile, until Camelot was hidden by trees.

They stopped at the crossroads, where Bain turned his mule about to face the others, dragon teeth in hand. "Did I mention that these are better than hounds in that they don't need a direct trail to follow? You can go anywhere in the world and still find Vraal, so long as you have his scent. It's quite handy when you don't know where to start. The drawback is that you may be led to an area where you cannot continue, such as a canyon or a river – the teeth would show that the target is just on the other side, but not how the target got there. We must be careful." With that, he lifted the teeth, cupped in Merlin's jacket, and began to chant in an arcane language. The warlock portrayed equal obliviousness to the understanding of the tongue as Bain lifted his burden high into the air and continued to chant.

"Bain!"

The spell was shattered as the hunter flinched, and his startled raven took to the skies in a mad flurry.

"What is it, sire?"

Arthur was thunder faced. "You _dare_ to use magic here?"

Bain shrugged, alarmed. "We are no longer in the city, my lord. I'd deemed it safe, but if you disagree—"

"I dis_approve_, never mind dis_agree_," the king snapped. "Magic is forbidden in Camelot. You know this."

"Yes, and I also know that Vraal must be found, and this is the only way."

"He's right," Merlin blurted, but he blushed at Arthur's stabbing glare.

"If it pleases you, sire," put out Bain coolly, "I learned this spell from Druids. They are accepted, are they not? They have been dubbed trustworthy in your prospering kingdom."

The knights all turned to stare at their king, who nodded in submission, though a muscle twitched in his jaw.

"Then if you don't mind, I need absolute silence." Once more, Bain raised his arms as though in prayer, chanting words of the Old Religion. His raven cawed as he suddenly threw the teeth into the air, and they scattered slightly as they rose and fell. Before they hit the ground, they caught themselves and hovered, level with the horses' shoulders.

"He has gone northeast!" the hunter cried triumphantly, taking up the teeth in one hand. He turned his pathetic mule in said direction, and trotted it Merlin's way. The warlock nudged his horse to the side to let Bain take the lead, but before he and the knights could follow the strange man, he abruptly stopped, stared at the teeth in his palm, and then turned around to go the other way.

"Whoops, my mistake. Must be the southwest."

The company exchanged baffled looks as they steered their horses the other way, but again, as Bain pulled ahead, he paused, turned and came back.

"What is this game?" Leon demanded impatiently, as, for the third time, Bain took the lead and then retreated.

"He must have enchanted them wrong," said Elyan.

"I never enchant them wrong!" Bain snapped. He picked up Merlin's jacket, which he had left across the mule's pommel before him. "The teeth only need a clear scent of what I'm looking for. This jacket would have that scent. Otherwise—"

Merlin suddenly cleared his throat, but Bain paid him no heed. Instead, he dismounted, staring at the teeth, and walked around. He went one way, then quickly changed to another. After a while of this, as the knights' tempers rose with the sun, Bain finally narrowed down where the teeth were pointing, and found himself circling Merlin's horse. He sighed and pinched his nose.

"Boy, this isn't the jacket you were wearing when you were attacked by Vraal, is it?"

The warlock shrugged nervously, embarrassed. "I tried to tell you, but you wouldn't lis—"

"Well then, where's _that_ jacket?"

Merlin's face remained as red as a humiliated cherry the whole time he went to retrieve the required coat, still in the citadel, the one he was wearing the night he was robbed. Sheepish, he handed it over to Bain as the knights stared flatly at him, though Gwaine winked reassuringly with a half-grin.

"Now, let's _try this again_." Bain was able to tell the teeth to disregard Merlin's scent and focus on Vraal's, and then, finally, legitimately, they were off.

* * *

—**To see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of...**

**Hm.**


	5. A Bard and a Hireling

~5~ A Bard and a Hireling

All were sceptical, of course. How could ancient _teeth_ tell anyone how to find anything? Plus, it was hard to take a man with a tipsy hat, a cheeky raven, and a rickety mule seriously.

But it was the best lead they had. So they bit the lip and went along.

Merlin was restless. He knew the road and surrounding forest well enough to have created a library of memories. Unfortunately, it was a very dark library. The last time he was in them, he and an old friend, Sir Lancelot, were fleeing the dreaded dorocha, unsettled spirits from the afterlife, escaped when the Veil was torn between the two worlds. Lancelot had sacrificed himself to close it, sacrificed himself in Merlin's place. The warlock has had that on his conscience for over two years.

He was the rearguard, staying a few paces back behind everyone else and alert for danger. Cruel memories taunted him with shadows in the shapes of censers, giant scorpions. Crows soaring low overhead were attacking gryphons. Lamia creatures lurked beneath rotting foliage, waiting for them to turn their backs.

As soon as the servant began to relax, a fox barking or his horse skittering would send his heart throbbing and his head whipping about in every direction.

Arthur failed to miss this.

"Are you all right, Merlin? You seem a little jumpy." His tone was nonchalant, mocking.

"Calm as a cockroach, sire."

Arthur grimaced. "A cockroach? That's—"

"_Brilliant!_"

Every horse perked at the sudden cry of jubilation, as did their riders.

Bain's hands were in the air, his face an expression of _eureka!_ "That's _brilliant_, boy! To take something as small and insignificant as a cockroach and utilize it to reveal your deepest emotions. Your skill is spectacular; I have never heard of such poetry! Please, may I write that down? I will include it in my next piece – you shall have due credit, I assure you."

Merlin stared, flabbergasted, then nodded numbly at the strange man.

"Jolly, _jolly_ good, sir! Where's my quill—_there's_ my quill. Where's my parchment—_there's_ my parchment. Now, calm as a cockroach...calm as a cockroach..."

Percival smoothly went to turned his horse around, but Gwaine, equally smooth, grabbed his arm and held him on course.

Bain beamed, his extravagantly long moustache lifting and expanding his smile. "I see real potential in you, my lad," he said to Merlin, who just blinked. "I have plenty of parchment here. The next time inspiration takes you, let it. Let it lift you away to the skies of wonder and imagery, past the blocks of modern life and through the clouds of beauty, and look into the bottomless vat that is the human imagination. Then, tell us what you see, smell, and hear. Release what is shackled, free what is bound, open the cage of immortality and share with us." He bowed in the saddle. He probably expected an applause, but the knights, king, and servant were too busy wondering if what they've set out to do was such a good plan after all.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

"They are on your trail, you know."

Daphne the Dagger pretended not to have jumped at the hiss of Vraal's voice in her ear, and sat back from her early evening fire, coolly watching the spitted hare as it cooked.

"How is this possible, Vraal? I was informed, by more than just _you_, that you were the best. How could they find your traces so soon, if at all?"

The vampyre spat and knelt down by the fire, but did not feel its warmth. "There are ways to track anybody, even masters such as I. They are very rare, but unfortunately, it seems that the king has gotten his paws on one."

"What does it matter to me?" asked Daphne, trying her best to not sound unnerved. "They are following _your_ trail, not mine."

"Aye, but I'm with you, so they're following _you_, too."

"Then go away and leave me alone."

The assassin simply hissed with laughter and reached into the flames. He tore off a piece of rabbit and bit it, only to spit it out with disgust.

"Too overdone," he sneered, and straightened.

Daphne looked at the roasting creature. It was still pink in most places. "So why _are_ you here? You can defend yourself against them – why worry about me?"

"Worry? I'm not worried, not for you. I just thought that once they've caught up to you and discovered the king's favoured ruby necklace with his wife's soul in your saddlery, you may want some..._assistance_, well enough to part yourself with little gold friends." He grinned cunningly.

Daphne glowered reproachfully, and then tossed a ready pouch of coins at the vampyre. "Don't kill them. Scare them, slaughter their horses, but don't harm them..._fatally_."

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

The Camelot companions quickly found the remains of a camp slightly off the road, one that the dragon teeth buzzed excitedly at.

"Vraal had been here, for more than a couple hours," said Bain, in explanation to the sudden change in behaviour of the teeth. "I believe that whoever had hired him had stayed here."

"So is there something that we can use to track this person?" Arthur asked suddenly. The hunter nodded.

"No doubt."

Merlin was only slightly slower in dismounting than his king was, but they both were matched in urgency to find something, anything, that the contractor could have left behind which would let them follow.

"Someone slept here," Arthur muttered, his tracking mode on full. "Two people sat here..."

They searched for half an hour with no success. There wasn't even a dirty dish cloth.

"Vraal is no longer on this road," said Bain, studying the dragon teeth. "He has swung to the far north. I believe he has left our contractor for good now."

"We'll get him later," Arthur grunted, hauling himself back into the saddle.

Bain looked astonished. "Sire?"

Rearranging the reins, Arthur said, not looking up, "There is no point in catching him if we end up losing what's important now. We have the trail of his contractor, and I mean to follow it. If you wish full pay, you can stay with us until we catch this bastard, take back Gwenevere's..._soul_..." He grimaced sadly as he said this, "and then, once she's safe, we'll follow Vraal. Like you said, he can be tracked anywhere in the world, so long as you have his scent. His contractor, however, can only be followed by this trail. Will you remain with us, or go your own way?"

Everyone waited expectantly for the vampyre hunter to reply. Though he looked slightly sour, Bain bowed. "I shall stay with you and your company, your majesty."

Arthur nodded in turn. "So be it." He led the way, after the tracks of the vampyre's contractor.

* * *

**Sorry about that rubbish Bain said about inspiration in the beginning, there. It was supposed to be crap ;)**

**No, **_**really**_******,**** I'm serious – it was shite on purpose, not my attempts to sound like a literary genius.**

**I'll update sooner, I swear it.**


	6. The Wolves' Lament

~6~ The Wolves' Lament

Merlin had first watch that evening.

It was almost cruel, the night was. The wind was chill and the sky dark: the sliver of moon that once donned the sky had blinked from existence, leaving the stars lonely and indifferent. They were beautiful, of course, but wariness outstrips beauty as a horse would a slug.

He sat huddled a little ways from the fire, a blanket around his shoulders and a sword across his knees. He saw the snoring lumps that were his companions surrounding the comforting flames, and wished that he was bundled up in his cozy sleeping roll as well. A probing wind reminded him constantly of this. He longed for that warm fire, but knew that if he moved any closer, he wouldn't be able to see into the trees at all; the light would prevent him from doing so. He had to stay back to watch for any unwelcome prowlers.

For nearly an hour, the most excitement he had was when he was too late to swat a mosquito, and he pulled his hand away from his neck with a tiny red and black smidgeon of his Pyrrhic victory on his palm. Wiping the remains on his pants, he pulled his neckerchief higher about his throat in defence. And then the wolves began to sing.

Merlin stiffened, hand grasping the hilt of the sword on his knees. After a few moments, without force, he relaxed. Wolves were harmless, at the best of times, anyway. They were cruelly stereotyped as heartless beasts of the forests, with no sense of honour in their frenzy to kill all in their path. They were gravely misunderstood creatures.

Their ghostly howls pierced the night and seemed almost mournful, as though lamenting the loss of the moon. As they came from all directions, one would think that there were at least a dozen of them, when for truly, there would be only about four.

Heaving a deep sigh, Merlin listened to the night symphony of wolves, wind, and crickets, and stared up at the stars with a sense of longing. Stars don't have to worry about anything, other than staying bright and making mortals envious.

One wolf sounded particularly close, and Merlin's head snapped around unbidden towards the noise. The horses snorted uneasily, stamping restless hooves against the soft, mossy ground. The warlock sprang to his feet as the wolf spontaneously snarled, vicious and feral. The agonized, canine whine that followed startled him even more though, and as he listened to the beast falling silent after a whimper of pain, he swallowed with a sense of foreboding. The horrific sound had stilled the night, for a moment anyway. The crickets sang on riotously as the servant cautiously stepped further from the fire, the blanket slipping from his shoulders, as he sought a better view into the trees. His sword reflected the black of the night sky and the crimson of the dancing flames, indecisive in its alliance.

He strained his ears to hear more of the wolf, but it, along with its comrades, had fallen silent, as though they were never there. Merlin frowned. What happened? Another wolf? Perhaps one beast invaded the territory of another and paid the price? He shook away the idea. He would have heard a continuous fight. A trap then: a hunter's trap?

After nearly five minutes, Merlin lowered the blade and stretched his limbs, stiff from standing so still. There were no more wolves, howling or whining in pain. His imagination was simply playing games with him. The creature probably just stepped on a thorn and slunk away in embarrassment. He snorted, contemptuous at his own fear. Glad he hadn't woken up anybody, Merlin went to settle the unnerved horses, which were picketed not far away. He whispered and patted their long faces, but they continued to whicker uneasily, flinching at his touch, the whites of their eyes reflecting the fire.

"Shh, shh," he soothed, calming his own grey mare. She snorted and lifted her head, preventing him from patting her velvety nose. "It's all right, girl," Merlin persisted, brushing a hand along her barrel and feeling the taunt muscles beneath her silver coat.

Something wasn't...right.

He himself began to feel the uneasiness that unsettled the horses. It crept up on him with the stealth of a shadow, and the visibility of one in the black night.

He shivered as the familiar tingle of being watched raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and he scanned the trees. He had felt it once before, not five days ago, on the night he had been robbed. Now, as his companions slumbered on, he was being stalked once more.

Merlin took in the dark, ominous forest, eyes wider than saucers, sword held before him.

The fire snickered.

A knight grunted and rolled over.

The mule brayed.

Vraal attacked.

The warlock had barely a moment to turn and slash with the sword wildly as the vampyre pounced on him from behind. With the swiftness of a striking viper, Vraal dodged away from the blade and vanished into the shadows, chuckling demonically. The horses all screamed and danced in a mad panic, held to their pickets by ropes and unable to flee.

"Arthur!" Merlin roared. "Gwaine! Percival! Wake—!" The servant choked as the side of a hand snapped out of the darkness and chopped at his throat. He collapsed, gasping and grovelling, holding his neck.

A horse squealed as it reared, lashing out with its forelegs above Merlin. Then there was a hiss of a drawing dagger, and the warlock winced as hot blood spattered all over his face and chest. The wounded horse grunted once in pain before collapsing, throat slashed open by an unseen blade.

He tried to gasp in horror, but could only gurgle as a second horse was slaughtered. He realized that it was his own grey just as she fell, her angered scream abruptly cut off.

Vraal hissed with pleasure, and Merlin was just able to see the vampyre's vague shape as he slithered towards Noble, Arthur's favourite stallion, which bucked and kicked in a frenzy to free itself.

"No," he tried to croak.

"OI!"

_Finally!_ the warlock thought as the knights charged towards the commotion. He went to stand and point out the vampyre, only to have Vraal's arm loop around his neck from behind and a dagger tip stick into his back. _Dammit!_

"Stop!"

The knights, Bain, and Arthur all froze in their tracks, weapons in mid-swing. Leon had a makeshift torch to illuminate the scene. Merlin could feel Vraal's cold, rancid breath on his neck, and he flinched as the knife bit into his spine.

"Move a step closer, and he'll never walk again," the assassin snapped, and jabbed Merlin's back for emphasis. The warlock grew angry at himself over his own stiff gasp, and struggled to no avail.

"Don't listen to h–_ick!_" All air was cut off as Vraal tightened his grasp around his throat. Merlin clawed at his arm, disregarding the warning stabs in his back from the dagger. He felt the vampyre skitter nervously, anxiously, as though suddenly disturbed.

Arthur made to jumped forward, but held himself back at Vraal's glower. He stared, furious but helpless, into the assassin's unforgiving, indigo gaze.

"We won't get anywhere like this," the king said calmly, though his relaxed composure never reached his tone.

"Oh, I do believe we will, _my lord_," Vraal countered, loosening his grip on Merlin's neck but not relinquishing his hold. He lowered his arm so that it was across the servant's chest. His voice suddenly became shaky, wet, with a slight lisp, and Merlin could see by Arthur's horrified expression that things were going to go from bad to catastrophically horrid. "I think, tonight, we're going to agree on a _lot_ of things."

"Go ahead, eat him," Gwaine scoffed, flicking a bored hand. "See what we care." His voice cracked. Vraal failed to miss it, and his grin spread.

"I will, don't worry. He'll be de-_licious_." The vampyre snickered as his spectators, and hostage, squirmed. "But do him a favour and end his life quickly: go back to Camelot, hunt me no more. I no longer have what you seek, and there's no possible way you can make me say where it now lies. Failure to do so will cost this one the pleasure of a quick, painless death, not to mention your own lives. It's amazing how long a person can survive, even under the worst of situations: so long, you may not be able to comprehend it with your puny, simplistic mortal minds."

The remaining four horses and mule were still prancing about in terror. Noble's spasmodic, unpredictable kicks nearly caught the vampyre several times, but he was _just_ out of range. Merlin flinched every time he sensed the perilous hooves pound the air mere feet behind, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. Perhaps if he timed just right, he could overbalance the assassin and get him into range of the kicks—

He shuddered in disgust and cringed away as Vraal suddenly licked him. The creature's cold, clammy tongue slipped along his neck with nauseating slowness. When he stopped, the vampyre hissed in warning as the knights went to approach again, their repulsed anger visible in the flickering torch.

"Enough of this game, D'Angeral," Bain growled. Gone was the bright, jovial bard. Now he was a fierce, determined hunter, his drawn bow at the ready. "Release the boy, and fight like a man!"

"Fight like a man? Do you mean flee at top speed with my tail between my legs?" Vraal snorted. "My good sir, you humans know nothing about fighting. You hack and chop at each other with the grace of drunken _baboons_."

For a moment, Bain's face lit up, and as Merlin watched with astonished bafflement, he went to reach for a pen and paper, mouthing _drunken baboons_ all the while. Elyan kicked him, and he sullenly stopped.

Arthur took a cautious step forward, sword down, wary of the assassin's ravenous expression. "He's just a servant, Vraal, not worth your time—"

"Don't waste your breath, Arthur," Percival snorted as Vraal tensed. "Diplomacy is lost on vampy—_whoa!_"

Merlin screamed himself hoarse as Vraal bit into the base of his neck, unable to contain himself any longer. The creature's teeth had all elongated to sharp needles, and they penetrated skin and muscle with the ease of sharpened blades. Merlin tugged frantically to free himself, but Vraal's grip was solid, and he was helpless as he felt blood being sucked from his neck.

"_Merlin!_" Arthur lunged forward, but, as though surprised, Vraal withdrew his fangs and gurgled questionably. Then he fled into the night, dodging beneath the king's swinging sword. In his haste, he nearly forgot to release the warlock, and he ended up pulling Merlin back a few feet into range of Noble's defensive kicks as he retreated.

The servant only heard Arthur scream half his name before an explosion of pain erupted from his head and upper back, and he fell into a soft cushion of calm darkness.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

He had lost them in the depths of the forest an hour ago, but Vraal ran on, his indigo eyes piercing the shadows as only his could, determined to leave the temptation behind. His demonic teeth had long since retracted and his features were now human, but the enduring memory of the servant's—no, _warlock's_—blood was drilled into his mind, slavered over his forked tongue.

He had realized just that evening why he was so attracted to the youth: he had _magic_.

When a vampyre takes the blood of another, he takes in their power, their strength, and uses them to become invulnerable to mortal limitations. It was a rare treat to feast on such a creature as a warlock, especially one so powerful as the servant boy, as this Merlin. His blood was so woven with an ancient magic, it seemed impossible that he hadn't been swarmed with vampyres years before then.

Vraal suddenly slowed, a feline grin spreading. Well, he was _glad_ lesser vampyres hadn't gotten their pathetic claws on the youth. That left Merlin _all_ to him.

He snickered, wringing his hands like an evil alchemist. Now that he's had a taste, there was no stopping him from taking the servant, and he would wait decades if he had to in order to gorge himself on the warlock's power, to claim it for himself.

He licked his lips, tasting the dried droplets of Merlin's blood around his mouth. Yes, the servant was going to be his, no matter the cost.

* * *

**Ew o_0**

******There you go, Kermit's Soft Kitty. I gave you BLOOOOOOOD. ;)**


	7. Brother

***Warning! Warning!* Horrible poetry inbound. Not for the faint of heart.**

**...**

* * *

~7~ Brother

The first thing he noticed was the vile stickiness in his mouth, and he grimaced before feeling the edge of something hard press against his lips. He opened his jaw and let in a gush of cool water, which he swallowed greedily as he opened his eyes.

Gaius the physician sighed with relief and smiled, taking the water skin away. "I never thought you'd wake up, Merlin. You slept like the Archons."

The warlock tried to sit up, but his head throbbed, as though a tiny drummer was cheerfully pounding the inside of his skull with gusto. He groaned, and Gaius put a hand to his shoulder to restrain him.

"Don't be foolish. Stay here."

"What happened?"

"Bitten and kicked. It was like you were bombarded with toddlers, Merlin."

"Kicked?"

Gaius nodded grimly. "According to the king, after Vraal released you, you got in reach of his horse's hooves. You were kicked in the head and back." He frowned. "You were very fortunate you weren't even an inch closer, or we would not be speaking now."

"So Arthur was here?"

"Well you certainly didn't _float_ back to Camelot yourself! He and the knights returned you here before continuing their quest."

Merlin sat up abruptly. "_They left without me?_" He was besieged by a vengeful neck, spine, and head, and he fell back, seeing red and moaning.

"You've done that so many times, it's baffling why you haven't stopped!" Gaius snapped impatiently, but not out of vehemence.

"How could they leave me behind?" Merlin grunted, feeling the stiff bandage around his skull. The bite wound from Vraal was bound by linen that wrapped around his neck, under his right arm and left across his chest. They itched.

"Because you were out cold and had turned green from vampyre venom," replied the physician calmly. He turned away, to return with a small vial filled with pale slivers of matter. "The rare swamp mandrake root. It's the only thing that can pull you out from the fever caused by the poison, and prevents its return, so long as it is continuously applied for a while, or eaten – I very much think you'd prefer the former treatment. You're extremely fortunate that I had some, else you'd still be fighting a losing battle." He put the vial away, and then picked up his satchel. "I have some rounds to do, seeing as you can't do them now. I'll be back soon – _stay here_." He departed.

Of course, Merlin did not 'stay here.' He waited five minutes to make sure his guardian didn't return to get anything, and then went about searching for the quickest pain-relievers. He found some still in leaf form and put them under his tongue. Ignoring the aches his body received as punishment, he went around as fast as he dared and packed the swamp mandrake root, food, blankets, water, more pain-relievers and, as he wouldn't have time to research now, a book of dark magical creatures, reassuring himself that there were facts about vampyres in it before shoving it into his pack.

It took less than ten minutes to get ready. He slipped out the door, glancing up both hallways, alert for Gaius, and then slunk his way to the stables. Acting casual, the servant saddled Arthur's fastest horse, a light copper bay called Rapier, and led her out into the late afternoon. The guards paid him no attention as he strolled out of the main gates and into the city. Only when he had departed from Camelot entirely did he kick the beast into a full-out gallop, straight southwest, after his companions.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

Arthur wasn't paying attention, and so when Gwaine, riding before the king, called back in warning as he released the tree branch, Arthur got smacked in the face by the prickly boughs.

He almost drew his sword in fury and alarm, but when reality caught up with his reverie and crushed it to smithereens, he calmed, and glowered at a snickering Gwaine. He seriously considered taking his boot and throwing it at the knight, but reined in his temper and immaturity at the last moment.

Two days. Two days hard riding southwest, into somewhat lesser-known lands after a faint trail, finding camps unskillfully hidden by the vampyre's contractor. It was at the third camp that Leon had found a cloth snagged on a branch. It was all they needed to latch themselves to the path of their primary target. Bain was reluctant to abandon Vraal's trail entirely, but the others reminded him that they still had Merlin's jacket with the assassin's scent, and that they will go after him later, after they've retrieved Gwenevere's soul back.

Now they were getting somewhere.

Even though the whole experience wasn't exactly what one would call material for an epic ballad, Bain Browsten the 'Bard' seemed to think otherwise.

"_They go forth, fearing no darkness,  
__Deep into the throat of peril!  
__Their steeds of noble, their swords of justice,  
__Their ruby cloaks a whirl!_"

"Euurg," Elyan moaned.

"_Beneath the sun of adventure,  
__Bright like a lemon,  
__They charge after the vampyre,  
__To squash his head like a melon!_"

"_No_," Leon growled.

"_With the rage of a badger,  
__And the grace of a tortoise,  
__They shall overcome all obstacles,  
__And th—"_

"_Enough!_"

Bain halted in mid-word, his hands up in enthusiasm, his face one of proud joy. He looked to Arthur, his arms still in the air. "Is something not to your liking, sire?"

"'Grace of a tortoise,'" Percival grumbled, lip curled in annoyed disgust. "How about the majesty of a chicken, or the strength of a caterpillar? Don't forget the faith of a walrus!"

"'Faith of a walrus,' that's _wondrous!_" Bain exclaimed. "So new, so untainted by the haunting claws of cliches! May I have it, good knight?"

"Sure, and I'll tell you where you can _stuff it_—"

"Movement ahead."

The trained knights of Camelot immediately formed a protective circle and drew their swords, scanning up and down the road. Arthur squinted, then relaxed.

"It's all right. Just a goat-herder."

The party edged to the side of the trail and let the youth with the many multicoloured goats pass by unhindered. For a moment, the air was filled with bleated '_baah-aah-aah_'s and jangling bells, but Arthur wasn't listening. He wandered back into his previous reverie of the events of a few days ago.

Merlin had come _that_ close to witnessing his final judgement. By the time they got the unconscious servant back to Camelot, he was a nauseating, sickly pale green, his bitten neck raging with infection despite their attempts to cleanse it. The knights and king had preferred not to move him at all, but if they hadn't, Merlin would have died. Gaius even said so, and thanked them warmly for bringing his ward home in time. The physician had a root of some kind that would save him, but even though he ensured the king that it would save the servant from the vampyre venom, it wouldn't wake him from the abyss of unconsciousness.

Arthur had wanted to wait until the youth was recovered, but Gaius told him that it would be days before Merlin properly recuperated, maybe even weeks. So, the king had to be content only with seeing all of the unnatural green tint leave his friend's skin before forcing himself to depart.

Now, he glanced longingly over his shoulder, as if to see the servant racing headlong down the road after them like a witch was on his heels. Then he shook himself. He was being ridiculous. Merlin was just a servant, unimportant and replaceable...But he couldn't bring himself to harden his heart so. Their relationship had grown to the point when he almost _needed_ Merlin at his side: annoying as it was, the youth's inapt prattle was like a relieving light in the dark, something that kept Arthur amused, optimistic, and perhaps even, at times, _sane_. It wasn't the same as when Gwenevere was gone, for that was a romantic love, love from the deepest niches of his heart that in her absence left him longing for her touch. His love for Merlin was something much different, spawned as the servant helped him again and again but asked for nothing in return...

The best conclusion the king could think of was that Merlin had become like a brother, a brother in all but blood, closer than Uther, his father, had ever been with him; a narrow proximity that not even his knights could fill. If that vampyre, if that Vraal, had killed his servant, there was no doubt in Arthur's mind that he would have been shaken to his very foundations, and left a wreck.

"Shall we continue, good masters?" asked Bain timidly.

Arthur shook himself. The goat-herder had long since left, now just a dusty speck down the road.

"Yes, yes, let's go."

* * *

**Again, purposely badly written poetry that shouldn't even be defined as poetry!**

**...Though, probably, something like that is about the best I can do... o_o**


	8. Boughs of Holly

~8~ Boughs of Holly

Merlin wanted to ride all night, but he knew that if he pushed any further into dusk, he would end up breaking the horse's leg over a gopher hole, and then where would he be?

He led the exhausted beast into the foliage at the side of the road and to a chuckling creek, where he picketed her to sate herself at her own leisure. The warlock then threw some branches and twigs together and said, not bothering to lower his voice, "_Iňflảmmő_." Gold irises flashed in the dark. A friendly fire sparked and engulfed his wood pile eagerly, banishing the shadows to the furthest reaches of the camp.

Almost mechanically, Merlin unsaddled Rapier and rooted through the bags, emerging with a dried meat strip and a lump of cheese. He found some sweet berries near the water and ate his pitiful dinner with the enthusiasm of a sloth.

With the fire and the horse as company, he watched the stars poke from their blanket of sky and illuminate the world before unravelling his bedroll. He slipped inside, only to grunt as he turned onto his right shoulder. Sitting up, he massaged the stiff gauze wrapping the bite on the base of his neck. It felt like a very deep bruise, and he removed the bandages cautiously, but was unable to see the wound due to the angle. He knew it needed caring.

Sighing, Merlin got up and searched through the saddlery for the swamp mandrake root, noticing with regret that there was very little of it in the vial as he pulled it out. Unsure of what to do, he also tugged out a tiny, travel saucepan, spilling out several of the bag's contents in the process, and filled it with water from the creek. With gold eyes blazing, the water boiled in an instant. Merlin dipped in bandages to sanitize them, then wrapped up a tiny bit of the root – it smelled like old radishes and shrimp – and some pain-killer with them to make poultice. He'd first considered eating it, as it worked almost as well that way as Gaius said, but he took one smell of the ashen root and shot down the option.

He gingerly wrapped his neck again, hissing lightly through his teeth if he pushed the tender skin too hard. After tying the ends in place, he waited for the pain-killer to set in.

As he sat there, he eyed the strewn bag contents, knocked out when he pulled the pan free. Magic uncoiled in his chest like a living thing, stretching gloriously like a liberated bird. As though time flew rapidly in reverse, all of the spilled objects soared back into the saddlery, neat as peas in a pod. He smiled. It felt so _good_ to use his natural ability unhindered, free from the boundaries of Camelot's law.

Eventually, his neck and shoulder grew numb, the pain exiled, so long as he didn't move too much. He lay down, using the saddle as a pillow, but found he couldn't close his aching eyes. He twitched at every sound, flinched when a bat fluttered overhead, stiffened when a creature prowled too close to his camp. He sat up, grumbling impatiently at himself, and glanced around.

"_I__n p__ė__riculum, vig__ĭ__lemuş me_," he whispered, his irises flashing like twin coins. "_T__û__eri me ảb host__ė__s __ô__cul__ĭ__s_."

Like a damp, laborious weight had been lifted from his shoulders, Merlin calmed and snuggled into his bed roll, content at last. The horse muttered once as she sensed a sudden change in the air, but deemed it harmless, and drifted back to sleep.

In a deep sense safety that the warlock felt he hadn't experienced in years, he finally closed his eyes, and became extinct to the world.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

Two more days will bring her home.

Daphne the Dagger topped the hillock and brought her horse to a rest. Wraith Marsh was not yet in sight, and she yearned for its comforting solitude and protection. She even missed the constant necessity to watch her back for banshees and Wanderers, though any normal person, any outsider, would be driven mad with the continuous, unrelenting peril of the marshes.

Her horse grumbled and lowered its shaggy head, nosing about for sweet grass. Daphne yanked on the reins and kicked it back into a lulling canter. She would cover a few more miles before camping for the night.

As she dismounted in an aspen grove, just over a league later, she loathed the feeling of the stiff ground that thudded as she landed. For thirty years, she had spent her days wearing the thick, scrawler-hide boots and a water-impermeable cloak to keep her dry. Much like a sea-legged sailor longing for the ocean waves, Daphne looked forward to the day she returned to the Marshes. After all, it had been nearly a year, a year of dedicated searching. But that had only been a fifth of the total adventure.

She built a small fire and unsheathed her daggers before prowling into the woods. With a few murmurs and a flash of golden eyes, a brace of conies lay dead just beneath the ground. She unburied them and skinned them on a tree with her blades. Spitting them, she let them roast while she cared for the horse. She had been unaccustomed to the beasts for a long time, for they are impractical in the Marshes, not only because their courage is often questionable. She eventually adjusted to their bumpy run and even grew to like them. Her home held her heart, however, and she would give up the companionship of any beast to be there once again, with her sister.

Eventually, having nothing to do, she slit open the seam in the saddle where she had inserted the _Rubr__û__m __ą__nima g__ē__mm__ą_, the Red soul gem, trapped as the necklace piece. The gold wings made it pretty, and otherwise inconspicuous, no more. How it had fallen into the hands of a simple trinket merchant was neither unbelievable nor important. All Daphne cared about was her tardiness in reaching the seller before the Camelot king. She kicked herself again and again for her slack, but it mattered not now. She had it, and it was full. Granted, a woman had lost her soul, and Daphne herself was short several hundred crowns in payment, but the latter was of little acknowledgement.

Considering that last fact, she wondered what had become of Vraal. After sending him off with most of the remainder of her gold to deter her pursuers, she had ridden hard and fast to put as much distance between herself and Camelot as possible, almost at the expense of the horse. It has now been two days and there had been no word of the vampyre. Perhaps he'd succeeded and simply lost interest in her. Perhaps he was killed; she dared not hope for that.

She admired the gleaming ruby of the necklace, flickering like a drop of blood in the firelight. So small, yet with such properties. If she looked too closely, and heard intently, she could detect the small swirling souls trapped inside...

She laid it on her lap. Half a decade of searching the world, and she had but two days till the end of her journey. The quest of the soul gems was drawing to a close. She had them all, or at least, one of each type. But they were so rare, the ones she had might as well be the only ones: the _V__irid__ĭ_, or Green, from the southern deserts; _C__ą__erul__ĕ__u__ş_, Blue, of the northern wastelands; the far east harboured _Nigr__ụ__m_, the Black; _Ąlbum_ the White had been guarded by a hippogryph's aerie; Yellow, _Lut__ė__us_, formally occupied the hilt of a Arabian prince's dagger, and the seas had once claimed _P__ụ__rpur__ą_, Purple. All were dormant, but all shall wake when called.

Two days.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

"Deck your horse with boughs of holly, laddies," Bain twittered as he hacked off branches of the red-berried plant and tossed them at the knights, who caught them and watched the hunter strangely. "Vampyres hate the smell of the leaves and crushed berries, and try to avoid it when possible."

"Then shouldn't we be 'decking' ourselves with holly, too?" Gwaine wove a bough of the berries in his hair and fluttered his eyes.

Bain pointed at him, concurring, and ignored his joshing. "Aye, you could, for good measure. But it is clear to me, clear to us _all_, I think, that Vraal was after our horses the other night, not us. Whoever hired him doesn't want anyone killed for whatever reason, just like that fateful evening when the servant was robbed. He or she just wanted to us deterred from pursuit, and eliminating our quick mode of transportation was the best way."

It had been days since they've seen Vraal, but they had guarded themselves closely every hour of the day and night, even bringing their horses close in camp to protect them.

Gwaine started to sing flamboyantly as he wove holly berries into his horse's mane. "I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty and witty and—"

"No!" Arthur snapped. "No more singing!"

"Any more vampyre repellants? Holy water? Crucifix?" asked Leon flatly of Bain. The bard shrugged, missing the sarcasm.

"Not really. Vampyres are natural creatures just like everything else. Of course, you could bash them over the head with a heavy crucifix or drown them in the holy water if you had enough, but other than that, there's nothing special in how you can kill them."

"So why didn't we do this earlier?" Elyan demanded.

"I didn't think that it would be necessary. The hunters became the hunted: Vraal would have had to seen us coming and warned his employer, not to save his or her life, but to earn himself a few more coins in exchange for further service. It appears that he never returned to the contractor, and remained in the north. I wonder what he is doing."

Bain's raven cawed and fluttered down to land on the bard's mule, where it began pecking at the holly berries with a vengeance.

"Here, here, that's enough of that!" Bain growled, waving the cheeky bird away. He turned to Arthur. "After you get that necklace – and your lady's soul – back from the one who started it all, you will want to return to Camelot, I think. I can go after Vraal by myself; you need not worry yourself with him."

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

A score of miles behind, Merlin finished reading all of the facts that Bain had just told the knights about vampyres from the book of dark creatures he'd stored in his saddlebags. There wasn't much. Now, slightly bored, he fingered through the pages, content with letting his recuperating horse find her own way down the path.

He saw many horribly detailed illustrations of malicious monsters, and scanned through their information with a mild interest, usually stopping if it said all had been hunted down and eliminated. He shuddered when he passed over the half page about dorocha, so little notes because so little was known, and continued on, pausing on a sheet that was dominated by a large, serpentine creature, round like a worm, but huge and finned. It had a circular mouth ringed with four layers of teeth all the way around, and it had about eight eyes of various sizes. Merlin glanced over the description, discovering that it was called a wyrm and that it abhorred heat but was attracted to light. Then he flipped the page again, reaching one with a slightly hunched, hooded figure of grey sketched onto the yellowed parchment.

_Wanderers are as little known as the far western sea_, he read. _Where they come from, where they reside, what they _are,_ is only supposed and assumed. The one fact that all who touched on the subject and dared to study them agreed on was that they stay within the borders of the Black Swamps (see also Wraith Marsh, Forbidden Bog, Dead Water, Hollow Moors). Why that is is both a mystery and a blessing._

Merlin glanced at the charcoal picture on the opposite page, frowning lightly. It looked like a regular person figure in a grey cloak, slightly tattered, but faceless. The void of the hood had a foreboding aura that the artist had miraculously captured with the medium, and it made the warlock shudder. He read on.

_They are often seen carrying a lantern in the distance, but only those smart and enlightened enough know not to follow. It is not yet discovered what happens to those who do pursue the light, because they are never found or seen again. _

_As to where the Wanderers come from, it is as cynical as the rest of their solitary nature. Some say that they are the spawn of banshees, or perhaps their disciples or mutated victims. Others suggest that Wanderers were born with the Swamps themselves, and will forever haunt their bogs. In any case, they are the least known, least sought after, but one of the most fascinating creatures the scholars and adventurers have yet come across. There are not many willing to study Wanderers, so their true natures may never be revealed._

_With good reason_, Merlin muttered inwardly, closing the book.

He slipped the tome into his bags and checked the sky. Judging by the sun, he figured that the horse had at least a half hour of rest, and nudged her back into a canter.


	9. Gaze of the Serpent

**A longer chapter. I hope you don't mind. :)**

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~9~ Gaze of the Serpent

For almost two days it was the game of cat and mouse. Merlin never seemed to gain any ground despite his light-footed horse and determination to catch up with his companions. The mouse didn't know it was being tailed by a friend, and scurried along after its own prey.

Merlin wasn't a tracker, but he could tell by the hoof-prints in the dirt that he was on the right road, at least. Any other indication of the small search party passing through, such as a fire pit or trampled earth, had been eliminated and erased. It was to discourage followers, welcome and unwelcome.

There was no sign of Vraal either. Perhaps it helped that the servant had come across a bunch of holly bushes and took what he could to deter the vampyre should he attack (he was especially excited to find them, as there were clear signs that his companions had taken boughs from the same plants). His ward spells kept himself and his horse safe at night, or they would, if there had been any danger.

Frustrating as it was, Merlin was forced to stop as the sun lay to rest that evening. Even the knowledge that his friends needed to halt for camp every night like him was worthless in his restless mood.

He glared into the embers of the night's fire, watching them pulse as though they were the flames' very heart. He vaguely heard his horse rumble deep in its chest and paw at the ground, vaguely heard the bat colony swarm overhead, and vaguely heard the bandit step into his camp and sit down across the fire from him.

Merlin glanced once at him, knowing that he was a renegade straight off, but nodded in greeting anyway and continued to stare into the flames, nonchalant, yet wondering how he could have forgotten to set up his wards. The thug reached into his jacket and pulled out a few spuds, which he placed on the heated stones of the pit to cook. Then he, too, fell still and watched the performance of the dancing embers.

One wouldn't know it, but the warlock was as taunt as a drum skin. He had yet to move, however, even as two more bandits entered the camp from the darkening trees and sat by their comrade, one female, one male. They said nothing. So did Merlin.

For nearly fifteen minutes it was like this. The disrupting restlessness and impending exhaustion burning in the warlock's belly converted into anxious malaise with every heartbeat. His knuckles turned white as he hugged his knees. He yawned once.

Finally, bandit number one spoke. "That's a fine horse, friend."

"Thank you. She was my father's." The servant didn't even look at the man.

"Pure bred?"

"Y—no. Mix. Not very good, even if she looks fast. She's pretty lazy, actually, and gets sick often."

"Oh. Shame. Could fetch a pretty good price otherwise."

"Aye." _Horse thieves_, Merlin thought, panic flickering in his chest and arousing his magic.

If one ever cooked potatoes, then that one would know how long it takes. Merlin sat with the bandits, silent as the wind but tense as a deer on slick ice, while the spuds of the first thief finally finished cooking. The man made to pick them up; air sliced through his teeth as he yanked his hand back from the heated potato skin, and the female bandit shook her head with a roll of her eyes.

"Fool," she said in a deep, monotonous voice. Just as Merlin dared a glance at her, he saw her eyes flash gold as she muttered an incantation, and the spuds floated up and away from the flames before landing on a rock by each thieves' side.

Sorcerer_ horse thieves_, he thought. _Don't move. Don't even shift_—

He shifted.

The woman turned to look at him, beaded hair clicking, as if expecting such an uneasy reaction. She smiled, and Merlin saw that half of her teeth were nearly rotted away. The servant smiled back tightly and avoided her hazel gaze.

"Dear, are you afraid of magic?"

"No," Merlin replied too quickly.

The lady adopted a pitying, cooing tone. "Oh, sweetie, it's okay to talk about it. That pig King Arthur is wrong about it all, you know. He doesn't understand—"

"He's not a pig—" He silenced himself. _Shut up, shut _up!

The bandit frowned. "What does it matter to you how we speak of him?"

"It...it doesn't."

She smiled again. "Magic is nothing to be afraid of, deary."

"Shegor, that's enough," grunted male bandit number two, chewing on a potato.

Not for Shegor, it wasn't. She stood and stepped lithely around the fire to sit by Merlin as though they were old friends. He knew she could feel his tenseness as she threw an arm around his shoulders and cuddled him, but he couldn't relax. He also couldn't help but notice how good she smelled, for a bandit.

"Oh, but you're so cold, sweetie," Shegor said, rubbing his shoulders, and she giggled as he cringed away. "Jumpy, aren't you?"

The first bandit growled deep in his throat, reminding Merlin of a dog.

"Calm yourself, Gregory," said Shegor sharply.

The second thug leered at Gregory across the fire. "A tart through and through," he grunted, still chewing on the potato skins. Shegor ignored him.

"What's your name, honey?" she asked of Merlin. Then her hands squeezed his shoulders as a twig snapped in the forest and he went to stand. "Shh, relax. What's your name?"

He wasn't about to tell her his name, not for anything. He struggled to get on his feet and investigate the sound, but her strength was astonishing from years of hard living.

"Sit _still_, deary. There's nothing to worry about."

Merlin rolled sideways, ducking under her grasp, and Gregory growled like a hound again. As the servant stood, so did the horse thieves. They all turned to face him, half of their features blazing orange in firelight.

"You can take what you need," said the warlock as strongly as he could. "Take anything. But not the horse. I need it, more than you can imagine." He had no desire for confrontation. He could rip these three to pieces if necessary, but it really _shouldn't_ be necessary.

Gregory snorted as his companion drew a dagger and Shegor smiled wolfishly. "All that you possess is already ours, boy," he said, matter-of-fact. "Even the horse. What have you now to offer in exchange for your life?"

A bead of sweat slithered down Merlin's spine. "Nothing, sir."

"'_Sir!_' That's a good one," the second bandit snickered.

"Stow it, Tom," Gregory snarled.

The warlock stepped further back from the fire, enabling him to see more of the surrounding trees. His eyes were not adjusted to darkness, however, so he couldn't tell if there was an ambush lying in wait or not. It seemed like there were just these three, but...

"Tom, check the saddlebags," Shegor ordered gruffly, no longer the sweet woman she had previously portrayed.

Merlin held perfectly still as the sneering thief walked past him, towards his luggage a few paces away.

"I have nothing of value—"

"_Stow it!_" Gregory snapped as Tom tore open the bags and shifted around.

The warlock could hear the bandit cursing and muttering, inspecting one thing and then tossing it away with barely a thought. Then he remembered the swamp mandrake. The _rare_ swamp mandrake.

"Um..."

That was as far as he got. What could he say? If they knew there was something in there, something more valuable than the horse to him considering his very life, they would have a staggering, unyielding advantage.

Shegor went to investigate his horse, Rapier, herself. She startled the mare with her brisk approach, but with the ease and grace of a veteran, she inspected the beast over, noting her overall health and strength. She combed a knot from her mane, lifted her lips to check the teeth and felt for cracks in the hooves. A few minutes later, Shegor, unfortunately, declared herself satisfied.

"A prime beast," she announced.

Gregory nudged Merlin roughly in the back. The warlock could smell his rancid breath. "You little liar."

"We take it," said Shegor, as calmly as she would when buying a rutabaga from a vendor.

Panic began to take wing in Merlin's stomach. "You don't understand. I _need_ that—"

"_We take it_."

Merlin's jaw clicked shut as the two male bandits went about, as though on a daily routine, to collect the servant's possessions. Gregory took the saddle and reins while Tom brought out some rope for the steed. Merlin could imagine a line of stolen horses standing somewhere on the road, waiting for the return of the three thieves. And suddenly, he became very, very angry.

_Steal from me, will they?_

He made to intercept Tom from roping his horse. "Back off, dirt bag."

The bandit turned in shock, eyes wide. Merlin's only warning of his attacker was when Tom's gaze flicked over his shoulder, and then a heavy, pounding pain exploded up his spine as Gregory punched him in the back. He grunted, stumbling forward. He gasped as he was hit again, this time in the shoulder, and he fell onto his front.

"That's enough, boys," Shegor snapped. Gregory ignored her and kicked Merlin in the head as he went to stand. "_Stop it_."

The warlock groaned, hand to his face. The skin on his cheek had split, and blood seeped from between his fingers. A coarse hand gripped the nape of his neck and pulled him up, only for a second fist to swing into his eye, knocking him back to the dirt. The vampyre bite wound screamed at him, sending stabs of pain across his shoulder.

"Gregory—"

The bandit's knuckles pounded blood from Merlin's nose as he snarled, "I see I need to teach you some _manners_, boy!"

The servant was blinded by tears from his shattered nose, and could do nothing in defence as Gregory kicked him in the stomach, knocking the wind from his body. The merciless boot came again, harder this time, and he curled up to protect himself from the man's furious onslaught.

"Gregory! That's _enough!_"

Shegor stepped forward to halt her raging companion, but the bigger thug shoved her back, yelling something unintelligibly at her. As he did so, Merlin tried to crawl away, only to be halted by Tom, who leered down at him with blackened teeth.

Before either of them could do anything, Gregory snared his front collar and dragged him upright, shoving his face into his. "You'll curse the day that you were whelped, boy, before I'm through with you."

"Release me."

The two words were so calm and forceful, that for a moment, the bandit just stared, blinking.

"Excuse me?" he stammered.

"Release me."

"_Release_ you? How in Hades do you think I'm just gonna release—"

"_R__ę__pellö!_"

Gregory dropped Merlin with a scream as he flew back through the air, arms flailing, to smash into a tree at the edge of the glade. An ominous crack shattered the night, and the bandit slumped lifelessly to the ground.

Merlin winced. He has killed before, but he loathed to do so.

The other two froze in astonishment, gawking at Merlin in spawning terror. Then their iced limbs melted, and they both lunged at him simultaneously, vengeful daggers in hand.

"Die!" Tom roared, slashing with his blade, but it was to the surprise of all when a dark shadow shot out of the darkness and snatched at his wrist, immobilizing his arm. "What the—"

A second shape punched the thief in the sternum, and he immediately ceased to breathe as he flew back through the air, landing several feet back and away from Merlin. Shegor stared blankly, glancing from her lifeless companion to the warlock, who was as dumbfounded as she. He even shrugged to show his innocence. It was as though the shadows had come alive.

_Wait, living shadows?_ Merlin thought, eyes widening. _Oooh dear_.

He did not wait to see what Vraal was going to do to Shegor as the vampyre blossomed into existence and pounced on her. The servant had already turned and fled by the time he saw a pair of gleaming eye disks reflecting the firelight like a cat's; all he heard were the bandit's shrieks of terror and Vraal's demoniac chortles of bloodthirsty glee.

He hastened to his horse, Rapier, whose eyes were wide with fear from the screams. Without saddle, without tack, without supplies, Merlin vaulted onto the beast and broke the halter tying her to the bush with magic. He wheeled about and kicked her into a gallop, straight into the trees, towards the road.

Shegor's howls were abruptly cut off, and Merlin's breath caught in his throat. Vraal would be after him now. The magic in his chest snarled and tore at its bindings, longing to burst free and blast the vampyre to bloody bits, but he wasn't about to fight him in complete darkness. He held the magic in check as he ducked beneath a low-hanging branch, and clung to the remains of the halter while Rapier broke free of the foliage and skidded onto the road. The beast spun about, confused at her rider's urgency, and Merlin turned her southwest without hesitation.

The moon had yet to make its rounds. It was black as Gaius's ink well and Merlin felt like he was blindfolded, but he couldn't risk illumination. He wasn't sure if he could defeat the vampyre, even with magic and light to see by, but he was positive that he could outrun him...sort of.

Despite the danger of hidden obstacles, he kicked Rapier faster. The horse shot forward, flattening her ears as though it helped her speed, doing the justice of a beast of Camelot. As though in reward, they rounded a bend and a display of golden lights spread out before them, less than a half mile away.

_A town!_ Merlin thought excitedly. Vraal wouldn't dare attack him there, would he? Not with countless people around...

The warlock smacked Rapier's hindquarters, encouraging more haste. He could feel her bunching and pounding muscles strain to beat the wind, the rhythmic clopping of her hooves and puffing breath shattering the still night air. At her full gallop, Rapier was known to defeat any horse in the realm – unfortunately, it wasn't enough.

Merlin yelped as an unseen hand grasped his wrist and yanked back, hauling him off the horse. The pulling pain in his shoulder was forgotten as the rest of his body hit the road and came tumbling to a halt. His winded chest fought for air as he forced himself painfully to his hands and knees. Somewhere, he could hear Vraal snickering in the darkness. That's not possible! How did he possibly catch up?

_No, no! The town is just right _there!

"Help!" he screamed. "Hel—!" He choked as a wiry twine fell over his head and around his neck, cutting off his air. The garrotte tightened; he squirmed, his hands fighting frantically for purchase to no avail. Thrashing, panicking, he kicked with his feet to try and keep up as Vraal began to pull him by the neck off the road and into the trees, so that the garrotte didn't take off his head.

_Magic, you idiot!_ he screamed at himself. _Use magic!_

But sheer terror wouldn't let him grasp at the patterns of power woven in the subconscious flows of his mind. It was the same feeling he suffered when the vampyre had held him hostage days before – it was as though Vraal's very contact had the ability to paralyse his prey with fear.

_Like the gaze of a snake_, the warlock thought with spawning horror. The faint, starlit outline of the road was fast deteriorating, and twigs and stones were clawing at his back as Vraal continued to drag him into the woods.

There, no one would hear his screams.

Merlin saw red splotches as tears of despair ran down his cheeks, and still he struggled to grasp the magic that slipped through his fingers like smoke. Every time he thought he had it, a gruelling image of what he figured the vampyre was going to do to him exploded across his inner eye, shaking his concentration until it splintered like a jousting knight's lance.

He began to pray, to all gods real and unreal, for it was all he could do, but he knew that it wasn't going to help anybody. Then the prayers became regrets.

_I'm sorry, Gwenevere_, he thought as his vision blackened to nothing and all he could hear was his fading heartbeat. _I'm sorry I couldn't help save you. I'm sorry, Gaius, for disobeying you. I hope someone finds me so you'll have closure. I'm sorry, Ma, for being unable to give a final goodbye._

_I'm sorry, Arthur, for no longer being there when you need me._

It was to his utmost surprise when the wire about his neck suddenly loosened. Merlin swallowed air greedily and coughed as burning fire raged down his throat. Through his fit, he could detect Vraal chortling still.

"Oh, you humans. Always such a pleasure to tease!"

Tearing the abandoned garrotte from around his neck, Merlin scrambled to his feet and made to turn. Magic flared fully-fledged now that the vampyre had released him, but before he could face his adversary, Vraal rushed him. The warlock grunted as he was shoved forward and into a tree, coarse bark digging at his cheek and chest. The vampyre pinned him there, his flaccid, cold breath on the back of his neck.

"A pleasure to tease, a pleasure to play with...a pleasure to _taste_."

Merlin groaned as Vraal licked the blood oozing from the cut on his cheek, courtesy of Gregory the horse thief, and from his broken nose. The vampyre snickered again.

_What is so_ funny? the warlock grumbled inwardly. Spontaneously, he tried to kick back, but his foot merely contacted Vraal's knee and did little to faze him. The monster sucked his teeth.

"Pitiful," he said with a sneer, further crushing Merlin against the tree.

"Stop playing and just kill me!" the servant snapped, then he gasped as Vraal prodded his chest where Gregory had damaged a rib or three.

"No," the vampyre said, heaving a sigh. He had only one hand holding Merlin to the tree now, the other inspecting the purple bruising on the warlock's side. "Not quite yet. There is—Whoops."

In a sudden spurt of strength, Merlin pushed back against the trunk and wormed free of the vampyre's restraints, but before he could flee, Vraal pounced. His pale hands snagged Merlin's jacket and bore him to the ground, pinning him down on his back.

"Just stay _still_ for a moment, _please!_" the creature hissed with a curious weight of impatience and exasperation, and Merlin, despite himself, obliged. "Sheesh. Like a little squirming eel, you are."

The servant spat in his eye, but Vraal merely wiped the spittle away and smiled, canines unsheathed and pricking his lower lip. Merlin was pale, but now he turned a pallid grey, trapped under Vraal's gaze like a rabbit beneath a hawk.

"I haven't had this much fun in years," the vampyre snickered gleefully, running a finger through the blood on Merlin's face and licking it. He shuddered with barely suppressed delight even as the warlock shivered in disgust.

Merlin snarled a few choice curses and again fought to free himself, but the vampyre was too strong.

"_Stop_ that, you spasmodic little prick!" Vraal snapped, squeezing the youth's arms until he obeyed. "Damn, one would think you'd learn." He grinned even as Merlin's lips curled into a growl.

"Didn't your mommy ever tell you not to play with your food?"

Vraal laughed, a deep, ominous sound that sent serpents of trepidation wriggling down Merlin's spine. "I really don't know what to make of you, boy," he declared with a light shake of his head. "It will be a shame to kill you: we could see a lot of the world together, you and I. You would give me limitless strength and power, and I, in turn, would give you immortality." He shrugged. "But, meh. I don't feel like having an accomplice."

Merlin tried to push himself into the ground as Vraal leaned forward and whispered into his ear.

"I am bound by honour and contract. I cannot kill you, for I have yet to accomplish the assignment given by my employer. Had I succeeded, we would not be speaking now. Had I chosen to continue my attempts full-heartedly, your companions would be dead and so would you by this time tomorrow. As it is, I wait. When your petty little king kills Daphne, I will be free to do with you however I wish. For now..." With the sleek grace of a cat, Vraal stood, leaving Merlin on the ground unhindered. A cunning smile split his dashing, demonic features, barely seen in the night. "I will _know_ when Daphne is dead; be sure of that, warlock. I will know."

Merlin crawled on his back away from the vampyre, wary and unwilling to let him out of his sight. As his shoulder hit a tree, leaves were kicked everywhere as he scrambled to his feet and continued to retreat backwards, limbs shaking.

Vraal smiled still, but he, too, was blending and fading away, into the darkness. "I will know. And Merlin?"

Freezing, the warlock stopped turning away to flee and faced the vampyre again, unbidden.

"Beware the Nameless One." Then, Vraal was gone.

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**We will see him again.**


	10. Riverstone

**Well, I've done it. I've just finished writing the last words to this story. When it comes to it, I hope you'll enjoy reading them as much as how hard it was to ****_figure them out!_**** :P**

**From now on, updates will be a bit quicker :) Maaaaaybe ;D**

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~10~ Riverstone

Her pace was slower now that she was devoid of horse and the fitness she'd possessed from years in Wraith Marsh, but the pull of home and the nostalgia of the marshes drew Daphne the Dagger on tirelessly. Taking the paths created by the few animals of the bog, she quickly continued west, swallowing up the distance between her and her heart's desire with the urgency of a starved dog.

It was daylight, and so the safest time to travel the Marshes, but she still had to look about constantly for the haunting creatures that stalk the land. The eternal fog that blankets three quarters of the marshes were deceitful: they can hide one person, but they can prevent them from seeing another coming. And it isn't always a person coming.

Her chosen path was leading to one such patch of thick mist. Over three decades of instinct commandeered her body, protecting her like a suit of the finest armour. Don't go that way; the path ends and a ravenous bog begins. That toad has a poison that irritates the skin for months, so don't touch it. Avoid that mushroom, for if trod upon, it emits a rancid, venomous fume that can burn your nose and clog your lungs in seconds.

Daphne knew all the marsh's secrets. They had little to hide from her now...Of course, there are still the banshees, and the Wanderers...and the mysteries of the Voices. The latter has had her baffled since the first time she recollected hearing them, when she was a little girl. Sometimes they were a chorus, a mournful chorus that left listeners weeping in sorrow, or shivering in fear. Other times it was a single voice, calling out for lost life and love.

Even now, the Voices rose in the fog, swirling around Daphne with the grim grace of the wind. Instead of leaving her trembling or sobbing, she sighed with relief. Her whole life was spent listening to the grieving words, and they were a lullaby to her now. She had spent many a sleepless night without their comforting howls and whispers.

Eventually, as was inevitable, she found herself wading through knee-deep swamp water, making sure her packs didn't trail through the muck. Treacherous as they were, Daphne could read the signs telling where she could and could not step, whether it be the position and density of the lisping reeds, the bubbles struggling to the surface for air, or simply by the feel of the mud beneath her feet. Yes, Dead Water had long since given up trying to add the one known as the Dagger to its insatiable collection of poor unfortunates who dared to trek the misty bogs.

Miles were devoured by Daphne's relentless pace, and soon she topped a low knoll overlooking the sight she'd been longing to see for a year. A small, leaning, one-room shack of stone, a single window and door, a crooked chimney, and a cellar, all in the middle of the driest section of marsh she had found. Home.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

"So you expect us to go down _there_," said Leon, in dignified incredulity, eyebrows raised.

Arthur found himself agreeing to the knight's scepticism. The small hillock they crested was the last defence between the comforting, familiar woods and the foreboding sludge of Wraith Marsh. The neglected landscape seemed to stretch on forever, to the furthest reaches of Albion and beyond. A few hills rose sparingly, as though the bog fought for air amid the ghastly waters. To the south, there was something that _might_ be defined as a forest, for there were several scraggly, grey trees that drooped mournfully, as though regretting where they had been fated to grow. The west beheld the sea, almost too distant to notice. The far, far north had a black range of mountains, their bases invisible from the mists that swirled about the marshes.

The land was unconquered, unclaimed, un_helpful_ to Albion's people in any shape or form. It was also the undoubted destination of their prey.

"Are you sure someone would live _here?_" asked Leon, grimacing.

"They stole my sister's soul," replied Elyan curtly. He liked this just as much as the others, which is to say, not at all. "Where else would a thieving corpse-hugger live?"

Arthur dropped his head before quickly scanning the marshes with a critical eye, not meeting the gaze of anyone else. He was troubled, and Elyan's words stirred up the unease simmering within every inch of his being. Gwen's soul taken for the sake of necromancy, her body left an empty shell, barely alive. It was not only the weight of her on his mind, but the thought of Vraal still wandering free. He could be in Camelot right now, eating anyone he wished...

Arthur had spent many restless evenings, taunted by the cruel dreams revealing Vraal tearing open Gwenevere's belly, and the helpless child within being devoured by the ravenous vampyre. Arthur would wake up, gasping and sweating, already reaching for his sword, _Excalibur_. Then, if he fell asleep again, he would see Merlin, sickly white and limp as a deboned fish, trapped in the clutches of the very same crimson-haired monster, whose demonic teeth were stained red with blood and spread in a wide, malicious grin.

Not for the first time did Arthur think that they should have gone north to where Vraal had been last detected, and dealt with the creature before he did any more harm. But then he dismissed it. Getting Gwen's soul back was the number one priority.

Impatient, he ripped himself from the daunting recollections and thoughts. His lip twitched. The marshes hadn't changed much from his trip down memory lane.

"Should we wait for the fog to lift?" asked Percival, watching the mists as though expecting them to rise at any moment.

Bain the bard snorted, then chuckled. "Wait? For the fog to lift? Why, we'd be waiting here for all eternity, lad! Most of those mists are everlasting. Eerie, indeed. Perfect for a necromancer," he added with a hint of disgust. His raven chortled and bobbed her head.

"Should we check that out first?" said Gwaine, pointing down at a previously unnoticed settlement on the edges of the marsh. It was over a mile away yet, but it was clearly run-down and gloomy.

"Riverstone," announced Bain with a grim nod. "A truly desolate place."

* * *

Every building and dock was several feet above the water, on slowly rotting wood stilts. They creaked and groaned like old men in the morning, labouring under the rickety, miserable houses that perched on top. Everything was cast a dull grey, drab and cold, in the eternal twilight that shrouded Wraith Marsh. Boats of all sizes flanked the dock, most looking ready to surrender to the water and submerge. There were mouldy supplies in them, most likely unused for years.

The companions watched the dark windows and doorways as they led their horses down the mistrustful dock, flinching if they ever saw someone watching back.

"Why is it called Riverstone?" Elyan asked in a whisper, afraid to break the dampening silence. His head whipped around as a small child dodged into the shadows of a barrel, ferret-like and skittish.

"Because of the river," Bain replied, but he didn't bother to lower his voice.

The knights and king glanced around, between the upheld buildings, and saw a relatively straight bank on either side of the town that ran alone the main shore.

"Static river," Arthur muttered.

Gwaine's foot fell through the rotted wood. He cursed as he fought to regain his balance and free himself, startling his horse in the process. The beast whickered uneasily and tugged back from the reins in Gwaine's grasp, nostrils flared, snorting.

"Calm that creature before it knocks us all off!" Percival snapped, stepping back.

When order was restored, Bain led them on to a tavern. There was a pathetically worn sign that read _The Silver Swan_, which was hanging from an eave by only one rusted chain. Beside the building was a wide, sheltered dock where they put their steeds.

"You know what? I'm going to stay here and watch the horses," said Leon, gaze narrowed at a few observers, who were eyeing the beasts hungrily.

The others climbed the steps to the tavern, held up by stilts like everything else, cautious as the wood creaked in protest. Inside, there were all of three people, including the bartender, who didn't bother to look up, even in the presence of strangers.

"Find yourselves a seat," said Bain, making his way over to the landlord.

The knights obliged, albeit warily, and inconspicuously watched the other inhabitants. The two other men, deep in their tankards of drink, barely moved for minutes at a time.

A while later, after finishing his exchange of words with the landlord, Bain returned with five cracked flagons on a tray, which he set down before the knights. Gwaine reached for his first, glanced down at the sludge inside, saw the bug drowning on the surface and slid the tankard away from himself.

"There is little to talk about in these parts," Bain said, retelling his conversation with the landlord, "but if there is any, this guy hears it. There had been a passerby, but she was no stranger. She was known in the marshes as Daphne the Dagger, and she lives in the swamp. For a year she was thought dead because she had made no contact with anyone here."

"So?"

"So, good knight, she may very well be our target." Bain put a thick-fingered hand over his chest, where an inside pocket protected their tracker. "The teeth never lie."

There was very little information other than that. This Daphne the Dagger had sold her horse and bought the much-needed gear of the swamps, like the water-impermeable clothing and boots. Then she left northwest with very little words otherwise.

They abandoned the untouched flagons of unknown origins and exited _The Silver Swan_, not begrudgingly.

"Guess we're going to have to acquire some of that equipment," said Elyan.

"There's a general store over here." Bain pointed. "You'll find everything in there. I'll get us a ferryman to take us across the river."

It took a lot of time and determined bargaining for the knights and their king to get decent wares for cheaper prices. Eventually, they managed to purchase the appropriate number of the scrawler-hide boots that never wear out or leak (they didn't ask what a scrawler was), light, close fitting water-proof cloaks with hoods and gloves, sleep rolls of the same impermeable material, and some herbs needed in case of poisonings. Despite their bartering, including the coin they gained when selling their spare effects, the supplies had nearly drained the king's pouch of all gold.

"There might just be enough to hire someone to watch the horses and my mule," said Bain, "as long as the ferryman isn't too expensive."

"Why do these people live here?" wondered Leon aloud, glancing once back at the pale, gaunt merchant in the general store. He looked to have never before seen a summer sun.

"Riverstone used to be a wealthy place," Bain explained. "There was value in these waters, just under a century ago. Of course, as is human nature, all the wealth was harvested and depleted, and the town fell into ruin. Most left, many died, and the rest don't know where to go. They've lived here their whole lives – to them, there is nothing outside Wraith Marsh. It used to be much bigger, Riverstone did, but the marshes ate most of the buildings and claimed back the land over the years." Cawing, Bain's raven dove from out of the twilit sky and landed on a rail, wiping her beak clean on the soft wood.

"Sire, look there." Elyan pointed to a dim figure, no bigger than a needle's eye, charging down the hillock towards Riverstone recklessly. "What is that?"

"It's a rider," said Leon, squinting through the mists. "Someone in a hurry."

They all waited curiously as the horseman approached Riverstone, growing larger with every passing moment. Eventually, he had to slow to a trot because of the treacherous condition of the docks, but as he parted the mists in his haste, the identity of the rider soon became clear.

"Saints alive," Arthur breathed. "Merlin!"

"Merlin?" The others cheered and applauded lightly as the servant neared, his horse breathing heavily and without saddle. The youth did not acknowledge their existence, however, and wavered sluggishly as his snorting horse stopped before the wall of knights.

"Merlin, what's wrong?" Arthur's smile faded. He stepped up to hold the beast, which he recognized as Rapier, and noticed that the servant had turned a deathly pale, tinged with nauseous green. A cut on his cheek was hastily bandaged, but gently oozed fresh blood, and one eye was bruised purple. Arthur cursed and lunged forward to catch Merlin as he fell sideways from the horse's bare back. "Quick!" the king demanded of Bain. "He needs a physician!"

* * *

Only when Merlin was once again breathing normally and his eyes open did Arthur relaxed slightly.

"How do you feel?" he asked quietly.

The servant stared vacantly at the king for a few moments, then he abruptly shot upright in the alien apothecary bed. "What happened?"

"You passed out," said Gwaine calmly, inspecting something cynical suspended in a jar of fluid.

"Vampyre venom is very persistent," explained Bain, who was looking out the window. "You should have continued to apply swamp mandrake root on your way here, foolish boy!"

"I did!" Merlin retorted, indignant. He felt the stiff bandages on his set nose. "But I lost it on the way."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Of course you did, Merlin."

The servant glowered. "I planned on finding some in the town, Soltier, but there was nothing there."

"Just as well," Arthur muttered. "You would have had to sell and arm and a leg to get any, and probably a lung, too." Merlin had no doubt that Arthur had used the last of his gold to get the root for his servant. Though he felt gratitude for his king, he didn't say anything.

* * *

"So, who's staying behind?"

The reunited seven companions stood by the emotionless ferryman awaiting to take them to the far shore. Bain gazed at each knight keenly, inquiringly.

"Someone has to stay to watch the horses," he reasoned. "Otherwise, all that will be left are gnawed bones. I don't fancy walking home. Plus, we don't have any gold to barter for more equipment."

The other six glanced furtively at each other, none wishing to abandon the quest and be the watchman. It went against their instinct and pride.

Bain clucked his tongue. "Fine. Let's leave the servant, then."

"No way!" Merlin protested furiously, and Arthur smirked, shaking his head.

"Are you joking, Bain?" demanded Gwaine incredulously as Leon snickered. "Do you not recall seeing this _servant_ charging down here in a raging fever, with no food, no supplies, not even a _saddle?_ You must be barking mad to think Merlin will obey and remain behind to watch horses."

Bain held up his hands in defence. "All right, all right, I get it." His hands went to his hips. "So what do you propose, then?"

Again silence fell.

"Percival, you can't swim," said Gwaine suddenly, and the bigger knight flushed in embarrassment and annoyance.

The hunter looked at Percival in astonishment. "Then it's nonnegotiable. You stay."

The knight growled, frustrated, but had no argument, though he wracked his brains fruitlessly for one.

* * *

They were about to take off when Merlin abruptly called out, "Wait!"

The others watched curiously as the servant hastened to where a pile of discarded rubbish lay on the edge of the dock. There, he knelt and drew his dagger, but his activity was hidden by his body.

"What are you doing, Merlin?" Arthur demanded, stepping up behind the youth just as he stood.

"We're going to need a way back," Merlin replied, holding up a scrap of cloth. "We can use this to give the dragon teeth the scent of Riverstone. It should work, right?" he asked Bain, who nodded.

"An admirable observation. Well done, boy," the bard replied. The knights grinned and congratulated the servant. Arthur simply rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, he can be smart when he tries hard enough." The king reached over and ruffled Merlin's hair, much to the servant's vexation.

* * *

**Sorry for lack of action here.**


	11. Into the Marshes

**Okay, so I tried to give this the eeriest atmosphere that I could. It may be a fail, but, hey, I tried. ;) Besides, the next chapter is meant to be even creepier. Listen to a spooky soundtrack (movie, game, whatever. We've all heard spooky music) and maybe it'll help. Helped me, leastways.**

**Here we go.**

* * *

~11~ Into the Marshes

Merlin cautiously stepped from the ferry onto what he thought was solid ground. The spongy mosses bordering the river caved and he hastily skittered back onto the raft.

"Lily-liver," Arthur snorted, and hopped off low-sided, flat-bottomed boat. He immediately sank, water rising up past his knees. The knights held their tongues; Merlin couldn't help but grin, though he tried not to. Arthur glowered back at him, lips tight over his teeth. "Don't you say a word," he growled.

The king's companions managed to drag him onto land, and then went about as though nothing had happened. As they headed inland, and the ferryman disappeared into the mists, Bain brought out the dragon teeth to read.

"We continue west," he said in a while, after checking the teeth and trail of the vampyre employee, Daphne. He looked longingly east, where Vraal remained, but then remembered his duty and took the lead.

The silence was deepening with every trudging step, and the travellers found themselves hankering for conversation.

"Tell us about your adventure, there, Merlin," said Gwaine, tugging free of grasping reeds.

With a modest shrug, the warlock recalled his journey after they had 'abandoned' him in Camelot, from the tense nights worrying about Vraal attacking (he never mentioned that he actually did) to the horse thieves.

"I evaded them near the town," he explained. "From there, I rode as fast as I could to get here. It was fortunate that there was just the one road leading to Riverstone, else I'd have lost you. The fever had started to return around mid-morning the next day, but I managed to fight it until the end. A whole day of it..." He shuddered.

"The thieves did _that_ to you?" asked Leon, pointing to the servant's black eye, bruised nose and split cheek.

"Yep, and they got my ribs, too."

Leon grimaced. "Ouch."

"And all that time, Vraal never attacked you?" Arthur enquired.

"...No. I don't think he liked the berries...The holly berries? Vampyres hate the smell," Merlin added as the king frowned. Then Arthur nodded in remembrance.

Night fell, and suddenly the world became very eerie. The spongy moss on the shores of the river had long since been accompanied by the whispering reeds that drowned themselves in swamp water pools. They hissed and chuckled to one another as the travellers found the hardest, driest patch of land they could and built a fire with the small wood supply they brought from Riverstone. It wasn't a very big fire, and the land wasn't very hard, but they did their best. They enjoyed what fresh food they managed to buy, for in the upcoming days, they were doomed to suffer through hard, dry, preserved food if they wished to avoid eating what little the marshes provided.

"Won't catch _me_ eating a toad," Gwaine grumbled. "No sir."

They huddled nearest to the fire as they could, and then Bain reached into his unnecessarily large pack and pulled out some kind of string instrument.

"A lute," Elyan grunted. "He brought...a _lute_."

The bard ignored him and strummed a few chords, tuning it gradually.

"_Deep in the marshes they tred,  
__With the wind in the reeds,  
__A stench of compost in the air,  
__And the companions devoid of steeds._

_With the mists swirling evermore,  
__And no fish a-flipping,  
__The pools of water placid and dark,  
__And the moon a toenail clipping—_"

"Stop! No more!" Gwaine wailed pleadingly.

"The moon is a _toenail clipping?_" Arthur threw his hands in the air. "That's quite enough, Bain!"

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

The same night that the companions were brooding around their first fire in the marshes, covering their ears against horrible poetry, Daphne the Dagger was caring for the graves nestled in the tunnel created by overhanging limbs and branches of surrounding trees. The water reached past her ankles, but she was unfazed as she pulled the reluctant creepers and soggy mosses from the twin pair of cold tomb stones. She read the forgotten script, painful as it was, and fell to her knees, feeling the lump rise in her throat. She traced her fingers along the carved names.

There was no such thing as a dry grave in Wraith Marsh. The acidic properties preserved the flesh but destroyed the bones, which is what Daphne needed.

"Daphne, is that you?"

The Dagger stood and turned, both hands grasping the weapons of her speciality before she even recognized the voice. "Naomi, you're here!"

The two sisters laughed and rushed to embrace each other, relishing the sound of each others' voices, unheard for over a year. As they pulled apart, Daphne took in her sister's slightly haggard appearance. The dark clothes of her profession were torn and muddied, but she still had that skull-headed staff she always carried around.

"Life has been hard on you," she commented, and got poked in the stomach for her troubles.

"You're one to talk!" Naomi countered, trying to brush a knot in Daphne's raven hair. She smiled. "It's been too long."

"But now, we have but a few days."

"You have it then."

Daphne reached into her jacket and pulled out the small red drop that was the _ą____nima gēmm__ą__. The final __ą____nima gēmm__ą__. _"And it is full."

Naomi stared greedily at the small gem, and took it, cupping it in her pale hand like she would a baby bird. "You have done well, my sister. How did you manage?"

With a sniff, Daphne said, "A little help from a blood sucker. It was the most efficient way, but the most expensive. The remains of the coinage we got from that depressed nobleman is gone."

"No matter, no matter. We have more wealth than we can imagine, right here," the necromancer replied, holding up the soul gem and watching the swirling spirits trapped inside. "The Nameless One will be satisfied, I'm sure."

"And my Kale shall be with me once again, my Kale and my little Adam." Daphne knelt before the twin graves, not noticing the flicker of darkness in Naomi's eye at the mention of the deceased lover. "Not long now." She reached down into the deeper pools at the foot of the tomb stones, where her hand brushed against soft, clammy flesh. "Not long."

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

Merlin woke up with his palm in mud. He grimaced and wiped it on a patch of moss, then tucked himself closer in his blanket, cozy. Behind him, he could hear the others stirring, but he didn't want to talk to them, not yet. Instead, he mulled over what Vraal had said to him, now four days ago.

"_When your petty little king kills Daphne, I will be free to do with you however I wish. I will know when Daphne is dead; be sure of that, warlock. I will know. Beware the Nameless One_."

Shuddering, Merlin withdrew into himself ever further. The vampyre's threats were bad enough, but then the warning about some _thing_ called the Nameless One...

He couldn't ask Bain about it, else he give away the true nature of his journey to unite with his companions. He didn't have the book of dark creatures anymore, for it was lost with the rest of his possessions.

_He could have been lying_, he reasoned with himself. _Yeah, that's it. Vraal was just lying, trying to scare me._

Pushing himself to his hands and knees, Merlin stretched his tense back muscles before sitting back on his heels. Most of the others were already up. As he scanned the marshes, he suddenly became aware of how creepy they _really_ were. The mists that had fallen the night prior refused to leave with the coming of dawn, and hung wispy around them, as though hiding the bog's secrets jealously. The black-watered pools were lifeless and impartial, shored by mossy ground. A few faded, leafless trees jabbed into the twilight sky like broken hands, and the reeds taunted each other, bowing gently in a breeze Merlin couldn't feel. The stench of decomposed earth and rancid water clogged his nostrils. It was no wonder the place had such numerous horrid names.

They had a cold breakfast and waited for Bain to gather his bearings. He took the lead, moving both on land and through the secretive pools, all of various depths. Sometimes they were just at their ankles. More often, they reached up past their shins. When it parted around their knees, thick and sludgy in some areas, thin and slimy in others, grumbles of discontent became audible.

There were signs of previous human habitation in the swamp. Occasionally, a post of some ancient fence stabbed into the air like a lonely sentinel, or the remains of a raised walkway started from nowhere and ended at the same place. The ruins of a building caught their curiosity, until they saw that half of the structure had already rotted away. It was a neglected, desolate place indeed.

A submerged root of some long gone tree grappled Merlin's foot, and he fell forward with a _splash_ that was swallowed up by the insulating mists. He spat out rancid water, using one drenched hand to wipe his sopping face. He untangled his foot and stood, rivulets streaming off his shoulders. He was grateful for the water-proof clothes, for they kept him dry, but they did nothing for the chill.

"Watch your step, young masters," Bain called over his shoulder. "We must care not to stray but a foot out of line, else we loose ourselves in the depths of this cursed land."

_To be lost here, in such a place as this_, the warlock muttered inwardly, and shivered.

When the voices began, they were so low and inconsistent that they were nearly undetectable. As they rose in pitch and volume, they were deemed just whispers of the wind, only there was no wind. When higher singers joined the chanting, the six companions had no choice but to accept what they were hearing.

"What's this new devilry?" asked Leon in a hushed tone, afraid to attract the attention of the mysterious voices.

No one, not even Bain, had an answer.

* * *

They went as far as they could and managed to find an ancient log to rest upon. It was soggy, and the trunk was peculiarly serpentine, but they were grateful for the pause and nibbled on biscuits to tame their growling bellies.

Arthur sat on the curved log and pulled one foot onto his opposite knee, and went about tugging off the clinging debris, the slimy snippets of roots and flaccid plant remains, from his boot. At one point, as Merlin watched – glad he wasn't doing the chore for the king himself – Arthur pulled off what looked like a thick, black strip of some kind, but when it wriggled, the king tossed it away with a barely withheld gasp of disgust. Merlin had an equally difficult time suppressing a snicker, and Arthur glowered at him as though wishing he had thrown the cynical black creature at his servant.

Gwaine patrolled the area cautiously, not straying too far away from their resting place. The choruses of enigmatic voices had stopped some time ago, but it still left him, and the others, wary. Everyone jumped when Bain's raven plummeted from her circling in the air and landed with two hops on the log. She cawed and pecked at the soggy wood as if searching for insects. No one paid her attention, until she crowed three more times and jabbed her beak in a frenzy at her perch.

"What's with her?" asked Elyan, nodding his chin at the infuriated bird.

"Hungry?" Bain made to pass her a crumb from his biscuit, but the raven simply took it and threw it away before proceeding with her frantic pecking.

Arthur was making ready to unburden his other boot when, suddenly, a repulsed, horrified expression befell his features. Merlin blinked questionably.

"What's wrong?"

The king simply swallowed, looking near the warlock's knees. Merlin frowned just as he felt something brush his leg. He glanced down, and paled.

It was a muddy, unpleasant brown, tipped with black and speckled sparingly. It was roughly triangular in shape, and attached to the log like a fungus by one corner. Spines the size of dog teeth ran down the length of the outer edge. It was about as long as Merlin's arm and wider than his waist, and it was waving slowly, to and fro, touching the warlock's leg again and again.

Leon, sitting not too far down the log's length from Arthur, also looked upon the protrusion in distaste. "Is that...a _fin?_"

Merlin glanced at him, ashen-faced, and nodded slowly. "We're sitting on it," he croaked.

"Sitting on what, exactly?" asked the king, stiffening.

"Sitting on a—"

"_Wyrm!_"

All those still perched on the 'log' were thrown flying through the air and into the water at Bain's cry, while his raven took off in a flurry of feathers. Arthur drew his sword, _Excalibur_, before he even got to his feet from the pool of water, and faced the serpentine creature as it rose from the muddy sludge, its bulbous head reaching to a height of twelve feet. Eight ochre eyes of various sizes and lengths all opened simultaneously and glowered suspiciously down at the six astounded companions. Its nose and mouth, ending in a dull point, twitched, and its many fins, running down its whole length, wavered experimentally. Gills at its throat pulsed, releasing a nauseating stench of decay.

There they all stood, staring at the wyrm as it stared back, motionless as scarecrows. Then Bain's raven descended and landed on Merlin's shoulder, where she jabbed his ear. He grunted, flinching, and the wyrm's head snapped around to face him. The warlock quailed beneath the many-eyed gaze.

"Oh, sh—"

The wyrm's circular mouth flashed open, revealing the four layers of razor teeth within, releasing a horrible, hissing warble. It lunged.

Arthur yelled unintelligibly and body-checked Merlin, sending him staggering out of the way of the teeth, and slashed at the creature as it neared. _Excalibur_ cut through slimy skin and the wyrm retreated, its neck pulling away with the grace and speed of a heron, but the grotesqueness of an eel. It hissed in frustration and pain, and the rest of its body curled around itself in defence.

"To me!" Arthur roared, and his knights hastily obeyed. Decades of discipline held true as they created a wall, which kept the wyrm from lunging again.

Bain stood by Merlin at one end of the wall of men, drawing a bow, and the warlock upholding a dagger, which would be of little use against the monster. It was better than fleeing and abandoning his companions.

The wyrm hissed again, a horrible, scratchy sound, and it wavered back and forth like a cobra readying itself to strike.

Perhaps it had been spending nearly half his life watching his back for danger that urged Merlin to turn his head slowly around and squint into the grey fog, so thick now that it made the water line impossible to see ten feet away. The second wyrm was noticeable, however, as it slithered up behind the companions as silently like a cat stalking its prey. It seemed even bigger than the first one.

"Erm, Arthur?"

"Yes, Merlin?" The words were terse between clenched teeth.

"In this case, two heads are _not_ better than one."

"Gee, thanks for the advice, Merlin! I..." He trailed off once he realized what the servant meant. He turned once, then faced the first wyrm, which seemed to almost smirk as it assessed the situation. "Double line!" he bellowed, and those on either end of the wall of men came about and got back-to-back with the next people in line. Now Leon, Arthur, and Merlin faced the newcomer, while the other three continued to keep the first off.

"All right, now what?" Merlin resisted the urge to hurtle his magic at the monsters, even as the power snarled and pulled at its bonds within him. He could dismantle the wyrms in a heartbeat, but what would that result for him in the end?

"We...we..." Arthur was concentrating as the second wyrm jabbed at the knights, gurgling deep in its circular, toothy maw. It was big enough to bite a horse in two, and then swallow the pieces whole. He sliced at it with _Excalibur_, missed, but never faltered.

"We charge headlong into danger, swords swinging, lungs screaming and hoping for the best!" Gwaine cried cheerfully, and broke the line.

"Gwaine, no!"

The wyrm squealed gleefully and struck, only to shriek in agony and recoil, shaking its head side to side and scattering dark blood everywhere. Gwaine hooted with exhilaration and hacked at the creature's slimy body, and even managed to cut off a fin before being forced to retreat. Elyan pounced to the ruffian knight's side defensively, and Bain shot an arrow into one of the wyrm's eight eyes. The monster gargled and thrashed about, trying to dislodge the quarrel.

As all of this was happening, Leon and Arthur led the second wave at the new wyrm. It had seen what the silver sticks of metal had done to its mate, and so was much more wary. Therefore, it made for the weakest link of the attack: Merlin.

The warlock dodged to the side, out of the creature's strike, then whirled around, using his momentum to drive his dagger into the creature's swollen nose. With a squeal, the wyrm swung its head towards him and batted him away, stunning him. As he crashed into a pool, to surface blind and coughing, Arthur leaped forward and jabbed his blade into the creature's gills. It flinched and retracted, hissing angrily. Leon unwittingly did the same as Gwaine and amputated a fin from the wyrm's side, and it slithered back, manoeuvring its body to a more protective position.

After that, it all fell apart. As though communicating through telepathy, the two wyrms suddenly lurched towards each other, bowling the knights over and effectively dividing them.

Merlin dragged Arthur from the water, only for a wyrm's tail to sweep their feet from under them. Leon was lost from view in the explosions of water and roiling wyrm bodies. As Arthur tried calling for his knights, his voice was swallowed in the hellish din. Even Merlin had difficulty hearing him.

"Go, Merlin!"

The servant had to look to his king to see that he was actually speaking to him.

"Go! Hide in the fog!"

"No!"

"_Do what I say!_"

"_No—!_" Merlin's defiance was interrupted as the wyrm's tail once more flailed towards him. He caught a blow in the chest and was tossed several metres into the swamp. He landed with a splash, and as he tried to gasp for air, he inhaled water. He vaguely heard Arthur screaming his name through his coughing fit, in which he nearly vomited to rid his body of unwanted water, but could only stand for a moment before falling over again. He was trapped in mud.

As he fought to pull his feet free of the muck, he tried finding the site of the skirmish, but was alarmed to see that the fog completely concealed it. Only the sounds of splashing water, shrieking wyrms and bellowing men could be detected.

He grasped what felt like an ancient root or branch beneath the surface of the swamp, and with a sequence of wiggles and twists, he hauled himself from the greedy grasp of the mud. At the same time, the branch yanked loose in his hand. An idea blossomed at the back of his mind.

He stood, precarious on the soft ground, and upheld the branch like a torch. It was wet, yes, and soggy, yes, but what was that for a warlock?

"_Iňflảmmő_." His eyes blazed like twin coins and a spark ignited the tip of the branch. It sputtered, but as Merlin coaxed it gently, it caught the water-logged wood and flickered playfully.

He recalled, from many days ago, reading about wyrms in the book of dark creatures where he had learned facts on vampyres. It said that these monsters abhor heat, but light, paradoxically, catches their eye.

He heaved a deep breath, ensured that his stream of magic keeping the flame sustained would not be disturbed, and let the sounds of the battle lead him right back to its midst. He had lost the dagger, left it in one of the monster's noses, so when he reached the nearest slimy coil of the nearest slimy wyrm, he simply yelled, "OI!" at the top of his lungs and kicked it.

The wyrm nearly ignored him, but then one of its many eyes noticed the flickering mage fire. With a sound that could almost pass as a purr, the creature turned its massive head and stared at the flame, even disregarding the stab Elyan inflicted on its side.

"Yeah, that's right. Follow the fire." Merlin slowly backed away, holding the torch before him and waving it gently back and forth. The wyrm's ochre eyes followed the light's trail, and then its whole snaky body roiled about to tail it, to tail the servant. "Come on."

"Merlin?"

_Damn!_ The warlock spun about and fled, retreating from where Arthur's voice rang out. The wyrm, along with its companion, followed, all sixteen eyes on the flickering flame that was rapidly vanishing into the fog.

"No, Merlin!"

_Go, go!_ the servant ordered himself, holding the fire above his head and bolting into the mists. Once more, he heard Arthur yell his name in dismay, but, devoid of the chain mail that would inevitably slow the king down, Merlin swiftly outstripped him, leading the wyrms away from him and his companions, with no thoughts his own life. It didn't take long to lose them all, and even as the wyrms closed in on him, he was satisfied in the knowledge that they were safe.

* * *

**Hm, a cliffie.**

***Troll face* Problem?**


	12. The Wanderer

******Okay, so this is supposed to be extra creepy. I listened to very spooky music while writing this chapter, which helped me set the scene in my head. In fact, that is what inspired this story in the first place.**

**Oh, and you can thank LunaShadowWolf13 for the creation of the story. This section was written first and I had asked her whether she thought it was any good. She said yes and so I elaborated. **

**Another thank you to Guest! No, I'm just kidding, Blase ;D Thank you for your fan-****_tastical_**** reviews ~ I couldn't reply to them because, well, you know.**

**Right, let's follow Arthur deeper into the marshes...**

* * *

~12~ The Wanderer

"MERLIN!"

Arthur fought to free himself from the mud trap submerged in the swamp water, only to long-coming avail. The fog was too thick to penetrate more than a few paces, and it seemed to throw the splashing sounds caused by his furious thrashing back at him as though it were solid rock.

Far, far to his left, he heard the bugling cry of a wyrm, and he hastily changed direction to follow it. His chest heaved for air but he did not yield, not until he stumbled again, landing on his hands and knees in the swamp.

Exhaustion had taxed him. He calmed and forced himself to breathe evenly, deeply, cursing the hindering chain mail beneath his cloak. He strained his ears to catch anything, a distant call, a splash, a gargling wyrm, but there was nothing. He was alone.

Arthur swore. "Gwaine!" he called. "Elyan? Anyone?" No reply. He swore again and slowly tugged himself from the treacherous mud trap. He wandered several paces one way, found he didn't recognize the jagged stump he came across, and turned to another.

_I should go back the way I came_, he thought, and snorted_. Yeah, and which way was that?_

The eternal twilight sky betrayed no secrets. There was no sun to track, so either this was the land of no time, or it was dusk. It must be dusk, for it seemed darker than usual. Either way, he was lost, with nothing to guide him.

He actually had to force his annoyance to overwhelm his fear as he trudged in a random direction, hoping it to be the right one. Keeping one hand on the pommel of _Excalibur_, he called out for his companions, only for his words to bounce back at him, the congealing mists an impenetrable barrier.

"Blast you, Merlin!" he snapped, even as he tripped again. Crashing face-first into the bog, he spat out the foul water and forced himself upright. "You and your stupidity! Your heart's too big for your brain." Then he tilted his head back, bellowing to the twilight sky. "You hear me? _Your heart's too big for your brain!_"

Shouting at a missing friend was all well and good for venting frustration; it did nothing for his isolation problem, though, and he stomped on, moving until the mists finally thinned and he could see further and further away. It still coiled loosely about his knees, but at least he could see his outstretched arm.

He scanned the marsh. The pools of dark water visible from the low fog were placid. Low, green-tinged islands speckled the land randomly. There was no sign to indicate where his oldest friend had disappeared to.

Then the cynical Voices of the bog rose once more, like a dark choir of lost souls. After several minutes, they faded into the thick air. The king shuddered.

As he paused to rest, he heard movement nearby, a small disturbance in the water. He faced to his left.

"Merlin, is that you?"

Arthur's sweaty palm tightened around the sword hilt at his side. Water sloshed thickly about his shins, invisible in the low mists. Reeds hissed and chuckled in a nonexistent breeze, as though coaxing him into deeper water. Something splashed behind him. He whirled around, _Excalibur_ drawn and knees bent in preparation, but there was nothing.

He nearly turned away, but his boots were swallowed by muck and he lost his balance. He fell, one arm flying out to catch himself, and in the process, his sword was thrown into the swamp.

"No no no!"

Arthur scrambled clumsily for the blade, choking as water leaped eagerly down his throat. Before he drowned, his hand clasped onto the hilt, and he used _Excalibur_ to help him stand. Slime slithered down his back, making him squirm.

A figure moved through the fog.

The mists parted and swirled in eddies and whorls as the form stalked past on silent feet, not even disturbing the water. In its hand was a glowing lantern, its cold yellow glow blurred.

The light faded. The figure was there, and then it wasn't. Arthur thought he'd imagined it, but it still sent his heart aflutter. There was another splash, lighter this time, like a dropped pebble nearby.

"...Merlin?"

Damp, dreaded silence.

The moon rose over the marshes, climbing out from behind distant black, disapproving mountains. The bog started to whisper to him again, seductive, lulling, but he knew not where the voices came from. With a glance over his shoulder, Arthur waded after the figure, sinister as it was. Perhaps it was a dweller of the marsh, someone who could help him?

No matter how quickly he moved towards where the shape had vanished, he couldn't find it. He was about to return back when he finally saw the form again – a hooded figure in grey with the soulless light held at its side. It was almost invisible, its cloak blending with the fog as though it _was_ the fog.

The humanoid shape was acknowledging him, the dark void of the cowl glowering at him with an eyeless gaze. Then it turned away and stepped into the reeds without so much as a rustle.

"Hey, wait!" Arthur ploughed through the viscous water, stifling queasy instincts and ignoring the hairs perking on the back of his neck. Even the marsh seemed to be warning him: slimy debris clutched his ankles, mud devoured his toes, ancient roots from long gone trees entangled his legs, clinging like beggars. They all tried to hold him back, but he persevered, following the light as blindly as a moth.

He was taken by surprise when water became soggy earth, and he stumbled, landing on his hands and knees. When he glanced up, the hooded figure was not but five paces away, pointing at him with a pale, spidery hand.

Arthur flinched and grasped his fallen sword, but when he looked up again, the cynical form was gone. He frowned, confused. _I could have sworn it was there! Right there, holding its dead light..._ Standing, he stepped cautiously towards the place where it had been. _See? There should be footprints right..._

Nothing. The ground was undisturbed by weight, unbroken by boot.

_Had I imagined it?_ Arthur rubbed his eyes, remembering too late that his hands were drenched in bog slime. His imagination had gone turncoat and convinced his memory to flash the figure for a heartbeat's rest of time, that's all. Then he lowered his hands from his face and saw the lantern once more, now a fuzzy smudge no larger than a mouse's toenail.

The chorus of enigmatic Voices rose, whispering in their alien tongue, cool and soothing as the words of a lover. Arthur ignored them, or tried to, and contemplated following the light again. It was mysterious, yes, but its bearer hasn't harmed him so far. It could have before, if it intended to. Scanning the fog around him, he tailed the lantern once more.

What must have been near a mile passed before a dark, ominous shape loomed before him. The guiding light vanished at its base as Arthur tilted his head back to see the shape's peak. He stepped closer and realized that it was some sort of chapel. The fog parted just enough for him to see the rundown structure more completely. One side of the roof had a gaping maw in the rotted wood, as though a boulder had been dropped through it. The slated outer walls were black with time and neglect. A rusted weather vane creaked as it slowly pivoted on a passing breeze. The crooked steeple had no bell.

The imposing sense of abandonment shrouding the place sent a light tremble down Arthur's spine, and he wiped his moist palm before grasping _Excalibur_ with a twinge of foreboding in his chest. The familiar texture of the hilt in his fingers reassured his clenching stomach and twittering heart. The figure in there can be harmed by a sword, else it wouldn't exist, and therefore he would have nothing to worry about. As for the building, it was just that: a building. Whatever it housed can be fought off.

Arthur shivered, but not from fear. His impermeable clothes kept him dry, but he was chilled to the bone. Inside, his guide may be stoking a fire right now, waiting for him to approach and share a meal. The king saw no smoke, but this figure with the lantern clearly knows the land and how to survive it; as humans need fire to thrive, there should be a fire soon enough.

Unless the figure wasn't human.

Literally shaking away the thought, Arthur padded softly up to the chapel's lopsided door, his boots squelching over the moist soil. He tentatively reached out to push open the entrance, eyes roaming around, and was mildly surprised when the door opened on silent hinges. A rotten, damp stench bombarded his nostrils, the breath of ancient decay. Warily, he stepped inside, noting the planked floor as it bowed and creaked beneath his weight. The chapel was empty of life, and he scanned its forgotten innards curiously.

The hole in the roof let in a dash of dead moonlight, creating an irregular silver star on the moist floor. There were fourteen rows of ancient pews, seven on either side of an aisle that ran down the middle. The aisle led from the door to the altar at the far end, which was flanked by two man-height candelabras, absent of candles. The altar was barren, and a wooden statue dominated the far wall. It was too dark to see it clearly. The modest windows on either side of the chapel were all broken, save one, but it was too grimy to see through.

The whole chapel had an air of gloomy disregard, like a lost memoir of a past life, an idyllic life filled with joy and bliss. But then something happened, something grim and terrible, and the place was abandoned.

A sudden weight of sorrow befell Arthur, and for a moment, he was not afraid, only sad. Then he saw the grey, hooded figure sitting in the second row of pews, right of the aisle. He blinked. The chapel was empty a moment ago, he was sure of it! He must have missed seeing the figure...but it was sitting at the edge of the moonlight's rays, casting a shadow upon the floor. It would have been impossible to overlook...

_He...she...whoever that is must be paying respects_, he said inwardly, ensuring silence as he took another step into the chapel, glancing behind the door out of precaution. When he faced the alter again, the figure had moved. It was now on the left side of the aisle, sitting in the fifth row of pews.

A sensible man would have left right then and there. _No one_ moves that fast, at least, no mortal – not that fast, not that silent, not that eerily. But Arthur held his ground, soft as it was, and just stared at the back of the figure's grey hood, as though trying to see through it to the being within. He nearly cleared his throat as a minute slunk by and there was no movement from either body. Instead of clearing, his throat swallowed as the figure finally stood up, its lantern gone. Its ashen cloak wavered smoothly as the shape glided from between the pews, slowly, graceful in its solemnity. It swept into the aisle and turned towards the king. No face was visible in the void that stretched from the hood and fell down past its chest, created by the ghostly moonlight above.

Arthur's mouth was like sandpaper. He blinked, just to see if the figure would vanish again. It didn't.

He wished it did.

"E-excuse me. Can you help me?"

Nothing.

"Can you help me?" said Arthur, more strongly, and less like a question.

The spectre just stood there, mute as a corpse, seven paces down. It made as though to take a step, and then in a flicker of reality, it was only two feet away from the king.

Arthur jumped a league and stumbled backwards, crashing into the open door, which crumbled, the wood too rotten to withstand the impact. Then he was on his feet and out into the dark, jumping into the bog without a second thought. Nothing ran through his mind but the knowledge that he had to get away, had to flee from the fathomless grey hooded figure.

The swamp continued to sing to him, inscrutable, inexplicable, inescapable.

* * *

**...**


	13. Damsel in Distress?

**Well, some of you may have realized that I misused the word 'passed' a lot. Stupid me. Thanks to krimsondelamber's review for a story completely irrelevant to this one, I became aware of the matter and am endeavouring to correct this annoying grammatical mistake. ****I am also aware that I had continuously misused 'reign' as well. ****Why am I telling you this? Because I have nothing else to say. Except a large thank you to all those who reviewed! I love you, my lovely lemon drops! (Yes, I got that from a youtube star ;) )**

* * *

~13~ Damsel...in Distress?

"What do we do now?"

The question needed not to be said, for it was on all of their minds, but Leon voiced it anyway, as though the swamp would give them an answer.

"We can't leave Daphne the Dagger's trail," insisted Bain, and his raven cawed in agreement. He lifted the dragon teeth in his hands, shaking them lightly to enunciate the importance of his words. They had misplaced the cloth they'd found days ago in the camp she'd occupied, as it had been in a pack that went missing during their fight with the wyrms. As if things weren't difficult enough. "We would be left helplessly lost."

"But what about Arthur?" Elyan demanded, frowning. "We can't abandon the chance of finding him again."

"I hope no one's forgotten our gangly friend," muttered Gwaine. "I've never seen a braver act than Merlin's." He shook his head. "He would not forsake _us_."

"Of course not," said Leon irritably. "But it would be a lot easier if they were together. We don't know if they are, and if they aren't, then our job is just that much more difficult, and our quest precarious."

"Gee, thanks for pointing that out, Captain Obvious!" Gwaine snapped, the usual frivolity gone.

"Just doing my duty, Lieutenant Sarcasm!"

"Enough, you two," Elyan interjected impatiently. He turned to Bain. "Can we use the teeth to find Arthur...and Merlin?"

The bard, grim, frowned thoughtfully. "Well, yes, if you have something he recently held for a fair amount of time, like a glove, perhaps? But then we'll lose Daphne's scent."

"Well this is a pickle," Gwaine murmured. Then he blinked. "Of course we go after Arthur."

"And risk the quest, master Gwaine? The queen?" Bain was reluctant. They had already lost Vraal's scent; Merlin's jacket was in his pack, which they couldn't find anywhere either. To lose the vampyre's scent now, when Bain had spent the last twenty years trying to find it, was devastating.

But this wasn't about sating long-lived desires of destroying the most dangerous vampyre to ever haunt the night, or to take back that which was stolen. The fate of Camelot was on the brink of oblivion.

"Yes – no – I don't know!" the knight snapped. He sighed, then stood motionless as Leon stomped over to the sacks of supplies they managed to salvage and fished out the king's riding gloves.

"Will these do?"

Bain was stiff, a frown threatening to crease his brow and betray his emotion. His usual long imperial moustache was limp from the swamp and made his down-turned mouth seem that much more disapproving. "Aye, they will do."

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

The wyrms emitted a ghastly stench. Merlin covered his nose with the aid of his neckerchief as he left their limp corpses in the bog. Their steaming entrails bled into the water from the gaping hole that the warlock had created in both of them, roughly where he thought their hearts might have been. He'd missed their hearts, but it didn't matter. They were dead. And he was alone.

He didn't bother calling for his friends. It would have been fruitless, and he might attract unwanted attention from even less wanted inhabitants. Finding the direction from whence he came, Merlin began the long and arduous journey back to his companions...wherever they may be. Within a mile, he realized that either the swamp swallowed their tracks or the wyrms never even left any. He supposed the former, but instead of yielding to despair, he tilted his head back and sighed to the darkening sky impatiently.

"Of course. I'm alone. I'm lost. Why wouldn't I be? Always seems to happen with every other quest. What's missing?" He counted on his fingers. "I'm alone, I'm lost, the quest's in the balance...I'm _talking_ to myself..."

Rambling on, he discovered that he was also without supplies of any kind – including mandrake root to withstand the vampyre venom in his veins – that he had no proper knowledge of Wraith Marsh at all, and that he was very, very hungry.

"Could have stayed in Ealdor," he muttered, fishing himself out of a particularly deep pool. "Could have become a farmer, a blacksmith, a bleeding _cheese-maker_...But _no_, I'm the grand and majestic King Arthur's _manservant_, though I've more often than not been bait for bandits, a target for training, and human _punching bag_—"

It went on for a while, this ranting. By the end, the warlock was feeling much better about himself and even his situation. Also by the end, he was in the middle of what was once a small settlement.

There were three buildings still standing, all in a line, their front porches facing in the same direction. They were black with decay and neglect, and leaned precariously, looking ready to fall in a stiff breeze. Mists played hide-and-seek within their broken windows and doorways. Their backyards were riddled with leafless, grey trees.

In front of the middlemost house, and at Merlin's feet, was a small wooden bridge, which would have jumped over a laughing creek if still existed. That creek was nothing more than a static pool, now. The land had long since flooded, conquered by the swamp, but there were two dry islands supporting the bridge, as though anxious to keep the structure dry.

As the pallid moon rose, slipping from its bed in the black, distant mountain range, Merlin stared at the houses, but he wasn't sure why. It wasn't as though these were the only buildings left standing in this obscure land. Perhaps it was because he felt so...uneasy, standing there before them...

It took a while for him to realize it, but suddenly the warlock perked as he noticed a sound, a sound so unexpected that, surely, he was hearing things. It was humming, from where, he could not tell, only that it was beautiful, and he wished to find its source.

Staggering, he nearly tripped as he shuffled his feet over the bridge. Closer to the buildings, he turned his head one way, then the other, deciding that the hummed lullaby was coming from the left house, and wandered, trance-like, towards it.

The defeated steps moaned in dissent as he ascended them, up to the front door. Merlin was surprised that the parlous porch didn't simply collapse around him like a giant maw and swallow him whole. He raised a fist to knock, then shook his head and pushed open the door. He whispered softly into his palm and a light blossomed, illuminating the small foyer he entered.

Inside, it was just as damp and dreary, and decidedly inhospitable. To his right, an archway led into an empty room, one with a shelf devoid of everything it may have once held aloft, a rocking chair, and a heavy draft – there were many rotted holes in the walls. To his left was another hollow room, this one a kitchen with all its appliances. In front of him was a dark and mistrustful staircase. He made towards it, still drawn by the humming.

He held the railing tightly as he took one step at a time, listening carefully for any sound that may indicate the stairs' failure. Every one of them creaked, and he winced when he put his foot down and tested his weight. Had it not been for the alluring call of the melody, he would have surrendered and left the building. As it was, he endeavoured on, desperate to find the source of the humming.

The upper floor was just as suspicious as the bottom, if not more so. The walls slanted in with the roof, forming a long, triangular room. A few wooden beams set at regular intervals ran the length of the attic. There was a bed in the far corner, not used for untold years. In the centre of the floor, there was a ragged, circular rug. What stood at a window, however, is what drew Merlin's eye.

He blinked. Surely he was seeing things. But he couldn't think of what it could be other than what he saw. A woman, dressed in grey and red rags, was looking out into the swamp as she hummed, oblivious to Merlin's arrival. The warlock made as though to call out, but words caught in his throat like parched sea shells. It was a soothing lullaby, a tune unrecognizable to him, but beautiful nonetheless. She was leaning on her arms against the sill, doing something that Merlin couldn't see with her hands.

"Madam?" he finally choked. His voice cracked. The humming did not falter and the figure did not move, other than a slight tilt of her head, in motion with her lullaby. It was beautiful. So beautiful, he greatly desired to get closer to hear better.

Picking up his feet slowly, he took gentle, deliberate steps, lowering them just as slowly, as to not awaken the moaning floor. It felt like an age passed before he came within five paces of her, eager to see her face but wary of disrupting her and her peaceful lullaby.

Merlin stood there for a few more minutes, relishing the calm tranquillity of it all, forgetting his surroundings, his problems, his peril, and he simply enjoyed himself. Eventually, however, his curiosity urged him onward, and he took a few more steps, moving closer to the wall. The woman was wearing a grey and red dress, holes piercing the ruddy fabric and stains darkening the edges. Merlin felt anger rise unbidden. How could anyone leave this poor woman alone out here, in the middle of nowhere, without even proper wear?

The only flesh showing were two grey hands, which were doing something Merlin couldn't see as she leaned on her forearms against the sill. Her sleeves trailed almost to her feet. Her head was bare, and long, stringy grey hair tumbled down her back. It also fell forward, concealing her face as she fiddled with the object in her hands, humming all the while.

Merlin stepped closer, raring to help. "Ma'am?" He cleared his throat. "Ma'am, are you lost?"

The humming stopped, and a sense of disappointment befell his heart, only for it to leap with excitement as the woman started to turn her head towards him. At last, he shall see her face!

But no. Her stringy grey hair did not part to reveal her features. Her bangs draped thickly over her face like a veil, keeping her identity cynical.

Only then did the warlock feel a flicker of unease. The woman began to turn the rest of her body towards him, her long sleeves concealing her front, and he could see what was in her hands. Merlin paled as he saw that in her right was a needle-like dagger, the blade nearly a foot long, and in her left was a dead songbird, its broken wings spread wide to bare its ruffled chest. The woman was rhythmically stabbing the bird, as if savouring her kill again and again.

Merlin nearly made a full-tilt retreat, but then the woman began to hum again, filling the heavy air with the angelic melody and warming his heart with a feeling of peace. His muscles relaxed, and the dead creature in her hands seemed of no more importance. It was just a stupid bird. What was a bird compared to the unearthly beauty that was this lady's song?

She stepped towards him, never faltering in her humming or her stabbing. Merlin was rooted to the spot, muscles slack, expression of pure bliss. The woman came to a stand still only about three feet away from him, and even when she lowered her arms with their long, trailing sleeves to reveal the gaping hole in the middle of her chest where her heart should be, a grotesque window from front to back, he found himself trapped in his tranquillity. Her arms spread out, still holding the dagger and the mutilated bird, and her humming heightened somewhat.

Despite the ragged maw tunnelling through the lady's chest, Merlin wanted to reach out and touch her, to move her hair and see her face, for it must be gorgeous to release such a song as this. She let him come, and then suddenly, her humming stopped, and the servant became like a statue. He blinked once, twice. The woman stiffened, threw back her veil of hair, and screamed.

Merlin's shriek of pain was overridden, unheard even by himself as he fell to his knees and covered his ears, barely seeing the lady's face as her jaw stretched unnaturally far, the black voids of her eye sockets barren of life and soul. Her skin was grey, wrinkled like a dried apple, and her shrill scream broke Merlin's ears. They bled as he cowered before her, his hands unable to protect him.

He curled up in a ball, tears running down his face, teeth gritted against the agony in his head. The banshee, for it could be nothing else, finally stopped her ghastly screech just as he thought his skull would explode. His ears rang, and he could hear nothing but his pounding heart as he scrambled to his feet and turned to flee, only for his foot to break through the floorboards. With a yelp, the rest of him followed his leg down, falling through the rotten wood to land with a crash on the ground floor. His chest struggled to breathe as he tried to stand again and make for the open door, vaguely noticing how fortunate he was to not have shattered a wrist or ankle from the fall.

Outside, he only made it to the edge of the water before the banshee screamed once more, and he fell into the pool with a cry of his own. Even if he held his head beneath the surface, the high-pitched wail was not dampened. She emerged from the house, eerily fast, needle-like dagger raised high for a stabbing kill.

His hand brushed past a rock as he writhed, and without thinking, he picked it up and blindly chucked it at the demonic creature. A squeal of alarm ended her scream, and Merlin was able to stand. Instead of fleeing, he faced the banshee and raised his arms in preparation. Magic raged within him like a typhoon, no longer hindered by the surprise of this unnatural encounter.

The banshee stood – or rather, _floated_ – just a few paces away from him, recuperating from the thrown rock. Her ragged dress bellowed about her, no feet visible at the bottom. Her hair looked to be blown back in a gusting wind. With her mouth closed, her face seemed almost too small for her body. Merlin could see the bridge through the hole in her chest, as though someone had torn her heart from her body.

_From where could such a creature spawn?_ he wondered inwardly, and only felt, not heard, the water slosh about his ankles as he shifted. He also felt the little rivulets of blood running down his jaw from his ears, but thought nothing of them. He focused on keeping his fear at bay, but as the banshee's attention fell to him once more, he couldn't help but shiver. _Just don't let her scr_—

She screamed.

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**_Oops!_**** Another cliffie. Naughty me x3**


	14. The Highwayman

**I'll bet Vraal looks like a cuddly kitten to you compared to Wanderers and banshees, eh? No?**

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~14~ The Highwayman

"You guys hear that?" Gwaine held perfectly still, looking off into the distance, a frown on his brow.

"What?" Elyan stopped behind him and scanned the fog.

"Shh."

The four remaining companions stilled and strained their ears. Sure enough, another high-pitched scream reverberated across the swamp, unhindered by the mists like other sounds were.

"What the hell is it?" asked Leon, advancing and coming to a halt beside Bain.

The bard was grim. In fact, he hadn't truly appeared his jolly self since they entered Wraith Marsh. "A banshee," he said. "And she's probably found your friend."

"...Not _Merlin!_" Gwaine gasped, outraged.

"Arthur is straight this way, according to the teeth, so who else could it be? Other than some very unfortunate explorer, which I doubt. Not many brave these treacherous waters..."

Gwaine glared at the hunter as though it was his fault Merlin was in danger. "I'm going after him."

"But what about Arthur?" Leon demanded, though he seemed as equally torn as the other knight.

"You go on." Gwaine tore his gloves off with his teeth and passed them to Bain. "Use these to find us once you've got Arthur."

"Sing to her," said the bard, and nodded in insistently as the knight frowned in confusion. "A human singing appears to throw banshees off. And here." Bain tossed Gwaine something pale and malleable. "Wax. Put it in your ears when you get close, to block out her shriek. You'll be helpless otherwise."

"Fine."

"I'll come with you," said Elyan, stepping up beside him.

Gwaine waved him away. "No. Though I loathe to say it, Arthur is our _first_ priority. Merlin is our friend but he still just a—" He cut himself off. "Go, get Arthur, then find us."

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

He ran until his lungs were on fire and his legs were spent. Leaning against the crooked, twisted trunk of a dead tree, Arthur rested, waiting for his knees to stop shaking, which took a fair amount of time. He had left the devilish creature and its haunting lantern behind long ago, but the thought of it following unnerved him, as much as he hated to admit it.

He had gone roughly in the direction from where he'd tailed the grey figure with its ghost light, in hope that his companions were trying to track him. Nothing looked familiar, and he felt the most undesirable feeling of hopelessness uncoil in his chest. He scanned the marsh, searching where the eternal fog allowed, and then suddenly heard a high-pitched shriek in the distance.

Perking like a startled bird, he raised his head and looked to the direction from whence it came, frowning. It made his ears tingle, not pleasantly, and he was glad he was no closer than he was. After a while, it stopped, only to start up again a few seconds later.

Arthur shivered. No natural creature could make such a sound. It must be some new type of foul inhabitant of the swamp, one he didn't relish meeting himself, not after the grey figure with the lantern.

As the horrid wail rose for a third time, the king continued on, as straight as he could, calling out occasionally for his companions. Once he thought he heard his name, but when he hurried in that direction, he found nothing, not even when he tried to regain the brief communication. He figured that it had just been his imagination.

When he saw the small but noticeable black hill rearing up in the fog, he again thought it his imagination. He soon came to realize that it was as real as his own nose, and he started to climb it. Emboldened, he hastened to its peak, eager to get proper bearings. At the top, he beheld a lone tree, its branches not barren like every other for miles around, its tallest twig barely reaching above Arthur's shoulder.

He touched its tear-drop leaves, silver in the moonlight, believing without a doubt that he was the first to do so for many years. Taking a deep breath, he tore his gaze from the single beauty left in the desolate land and scanned the marshes. The slit of moon cast the fog a silvery sheen. Then his eyes passed over three ebony triangles that were the peaks of buildings, and his attention remained trapped with them instead.

He focused on them, judging them to be at least a mile away. The fog must lift in these parts, else he wouldn't have seen them at all.

Should he go to them? Arthur bit his lip, contemplating. The last time he entered an abandoned building, he was faced by something...not human. What else could he do? Wandering about mindlessly in the god-forsaken place was none too appealing, even though he had been doing it for the past hour. Perhaps if he at least explored the three buildings, he might find them completely deserted and safe, and he could rest there. At least finding out if the place was barren or not would lay his mind at rest.

He glanced once more at the lone, forgotten tree, and then descended down the hill, back into the sea of mist.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

There weren't very many obstacles to bar his way, but Gwaine found it difficult to track where he had heard the initial banshee scream without wavering from a straight line. He kept his hand on the pommel of his sword, eyes constantly watching the fog.

He had gone into nearly a sprint as he heard a third scream, and his urgency battled with his caution until they reached a compromise. He jogged briskly, slowing every time he heard something amiss or saw movement through the fog. There wasn't ever anything there.

The mists lifted slightly, and Gwaine sighed with relief. He thought he was going to develop claustrophobia in the hellish place, especially when the lifeless greyness prevented him from seeing his outstretched arm. Now, he could see to about forty paces, and therefore, the black structures that could only be houses were clearly visible.

He paused, watching for movement and listening for sounds, and was rewarded for his caution. Rhythmic splashes sounded to his right, and he drew his sword. The signature hiss of unsheathing blade was echoed, and Gwaine blinked. Another swordsman?

"Who's there?" he demanded, bracing himself as he turned towards the sound.

"I was about to ask the same thing." Arthur stepped from the mists, an indifferent expression dominating his face. There was a grin flickering beneath the stolid mouth.

"Oh, it's you," Gwaine grunted, sheathing his sword, equally impassive. He couldn't hide the snickering glitter in his eye.

"Looking for someone, are you?" The king replaced _Excalibur_ in its scabbard and approached the knight.

"Aye – Merlin. You seen him around?"

Arthur pretended to think for a bit, a thoughtful look on his face, biting his lip. Then he shook his head. "No, not for a while. I'd actually hoped that he was with you."

"Ditto...With you, I mean. It would be better than where we have supposed him to be."

"Which is?"

"In the clutches of a banshee."

"Ah." Arthur nodded casually, gaze down and eyebrows raised. "Well, I suppose we should go find him."

"Yep."

"Try these houses?"

"Why not? Oh, and here." Gwaine passed him some wax from his pocket and instructed him to put them into his ears. "Banshee shrieks are nasty, evidently."

The knight and king stalked briskly though the sludgy pools towards the trio of buildings, hands on the pommels of their swords, and both spontaneously saw the ragged figure floating a foot off the ground near a second form, who was lying limp half in, half out of the water. The suspended figure, a woman, the banshee, was chanting arcane words and holding high a down-turned dagger. The lifeless shape on the ground was undoubtedly—

"Merlin," Gwaine and Arthur said in unison, nodding at each other but barely catching the word spoken between them, due to the wax in their ears.

The banshee heard them and turned, a grey veil of hair concealing her face. Her torn, stained red dress wavered soundlessly in an nonexistent breeze, her sleeves long as they hung from scrawny wrists. A great hole where her heart should be was like a grotesque window to the swamp behind her.

The king and his knight glanced towards each other again, both withholding expressions of distaste.

"Why is that we always come across the most foul creatures in Albion?" asked Arthur loudly, after Gwaine pulled the wax from one ear to hear. The knight shrugged wordlessly, mouth slightly twisted and eyes rolling as he replaced the wax.

"We're from Camelot. What d'you expect?"

Like a ghostly spectre, the banshee drifted towards the two men, and Arthur was obliged to ask, "What are you doing to our friend?"

She paused, but any expression was hidden by her mask of hair. The king pulled out the wax from one ear like Gwaine, wincing as he did so, and enquired once more. "What are you doing with our friend, you mangy hag?"

And then the banshee began to hum. The captivating tone embraced Arthur's cleared ear, and his thoughts immediately drifted from his concern for his fallen friend to the graceful beauty of the angelic melody. Gwaine must have seen the bedazzled, yet undeniably blissful look on the king's face, for he also took the wax from one ear again.

"Sweet pineapples," he gasped, exaggerated coolness gone. Arthur simply stared dumbly.

Though they did not know it, they had succumbed to the banshee's enchantment just as quick as Merlin, and so they, too, were helpless as the spectre's veil of hair suddenly flew back, exposing the grey skin and unnaturally long jaw that emphasized her gnarled face. The ghastly, unearthly shriek that emitted from her stretched maw forced them to their knees, screaming in pain and holding the sides of their heads.

"The wax!" Gwaine roared, but his hands betrayed him and refused to halt their fruitless efforts to defend him.

Arthur writhed, falling onto his side as blood dripped from his unprotected ear, his sword forgotten and submerged in a pool nearby. He cursed again and again, unable to hear even himself over the hellish din of the banshee. Putting his head beneath the water was just as ineffective.

And then Gwaine screamed, in a gracefully, almost singing-like manner, the most unsuspecting words ever.

"_The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.  
__The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas—_"

The banshee stopped screaming just as Arthur yelled, "_GWAINE?_"

The knight ignored both him and the woman, eyes closed, but his tone lowered to a more smooth, peaceful tone as he continued.

"_The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,  
__And the highwayman came riding, riding, riding,  
__The highwayman came riding up to the old inn door._"

Arthur stared at the man in astonishment, not even noticing the banshee's peculiar movements as she winced and cringed as though in pain. Gwaine was actually _singing._ And not only that, but he was _good!_

"_Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,  
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred._"

"Gwaine, what are you _doing?_" Arthur thought the knight had finally lost it all, but Gwaine suddenly made an impatient chopping motion with his hand, and then pointed at the banshee. The king glanced at her, and blinked to see that she was waving her arms as though to ward off an invisible enemy. Her lifeless hair had fallen back over her face, and slowly, but indubitably, she was retreating, floating back towards where Merlin remained prone.

"_He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there,  
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,  
Bess, the landlord's daughter,  
__Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair._"

Without pausing, Gwaine indicated to the servant as he walked forward, singing at the banshee. Arthur understood immediately and snatched up _Excalibur_ before making his way over to Merlin, eyes never leaving the cursed woman. As he stood above him, he nudged him with his boot, and was relieved to feel him stir.

"Merlin? Merlin, are you all right? Can you stand?"

There was no reply. Arthur finally looked down, alarm breaching his defences, and realized that even though he was conscious, Merlin was too weak to stand. The king cursed once more, then sheathed his sword and knelt down. He grasped his faithful servant by the arm and leg before throwing him across both shoulders, despite his feeble protests.

"Hold still, idiot," Arthur grunted, walking easily over to Gwaine, who sung still to fend off the banshee. "Let's go."

The knight continued to release his heart in a surprisingly graceful voice as they retreated from the three houses, leaving the hellish creature, furious but helpless, behind to suffer through solitude forever more.

For over a mile Gwaine sang, Arthur joining if he knew the lyrics, until they were absolutely certain that they were alone. Only then did the king lower Merlin to the soft, mossy ground and turn him onto his back to inspect him. He was relieved to see that the servant was breathing normally, but he was twitching erratically, as though in a haunting nightmare.

"Did Bain mention what banshees do to people?" Arthur asked, composure calm but insides roiling like an ocean storm.

"I'm afraid not," Gwaine replied grimly. He lifted Merlin's eyelid, noticing that the iris was looking up as though asleep, but then flinched, hand retracting, when the servant suddenly looked at him. His pupils were dilated, the sapphire rings around them almost entirely consumed by blackness.

Merlin sat up, sending the others back a little, and paused. He wiggled a finger in one ear before shaking his head. He did the same thing again, an expression of horror spreading across his features.

The king swore. He only had a feeling of cotton in one ear, and that was only from one banshee shriek. Merlin had suffered through three, now four, not protected at all. By the way he continued to paw at his bloodied ears, he must only be...

"Merlin, can you hear me?" Arthur enunciated loudly, tapping the servant's shoulder so that he would look at him. "_Can—you—hear—me?_"

The youth simply looked from the king's left eye to his right and back again as though searching for an explanation of his deafness in Arthur's gaze.

Tearing away from the contact, Arthur faced Gwaine, discipline keeping his features level and stern; in reality, he wanted to punch something in fury at his servant's unjust fate.

"Great," he grumbled. "Now how am I supposed to tell him what to do?"

"We should wait here for Bain," the knight said calmly, his own internal struggles evident in his tense posture. "We were following your trail when we heard the banshee shrieks. It may take an hour or so, but..." Gwaine fell from squatting on his heels to sitting on his backside, and there he rested, staring at Merlin, arms on his knees. The servant, for his part, did not break down or otherwise show signs of despair, but sat silently, wiping the tickling red rivulets from the sides of his jaw.

Arthur sat beside him, only for the servant to point inquiringly at his bloodied ear. "I'm fine," he grunted, but at Merlin's puzzled expression, bellowed, "I'M _FINE!_"

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

It was horrible, sitting still and struggling not to fiddle with his ears because they felt like they could be cleared simply by pulling the tufts of fluff that had lodged themselves inside. Merlin remained as motionless as his two companions, who occasionally threw him furtive looks when they thought he wasn't paying attention. He endured the monotonous ringing in his head and watched the moon when the fog dissipated a little, blinking when he thought he saw something fly in front of it. He disregarded it a moment later, figuring that it was merely his imagination.

After a while, Merlin got too restless to sit still anymore and stood. He hunted around for any dry wood for several minutes, but in vain. That was to be expected, anyway. Sitting back down on a boulder, he rested his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands, nonchalant and bored.

He heard what sounded like a dull throb, and then something mushy hit him, making him stiffen in alarm.

Faintly, he detected, "_They're here, idiot!_"

With a withering look at Arthur, who had thrown a giant mushroom to get his attention, Merlin stood and glanced about, noticing Elyan, Leon, and Bain emerging from the fog. He took no real participation in the relieved greetings, but smiled and nodded where appropriate and let Arthur explain his lack of communication.

He tried to read their lips as they told each other what had transpired since the unfortunate separation of them all, but mostly failed. Then Bain turned to him and said something, but he just stared dumbly, pointing uselessly at the sides of his head. He jumped as Arthur bellowed in his ear (though it sounded like he was screaming through several layers of thick blanket), "_He said there's a chance that you'll hear again!_"

"THAT'S GREAT!" Merlin roared back, and Arthur retreated a step, looking as though someone had bashed a pair of giant cymbals in his face. The servant flushed, glancing sheepishly at his astounded companions.

"Damn, I didn't know you could be that loud, at least when you're not afraid," joked Gwaine, but as Merlin leaned closer, hand cupping his ear, he cried, "I SAID—!"

"No, that's enough!" Leon barked impatiently with a wave of his hand.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

Though they could not make a fire, they made camp on the highest patch of ground they could and tried to keep in good spirits. Merlin unravelled his sleeping roll slightly apart from the others and pretended to fall asleep so that they would leave him alone. There he waited until his watch, six hours into the night.

It had been debated whether Merlin should have a watch at all, seeing as he wouldn't be able to hear anyone coming, but when they told (or rather, yelled at) him to just take the whole night off, the servant insisted that he have a watch, reminding them that he still had his eyes.

As he'd planned, they agreed, but gave him the shortest watch of only an hour and a half. It was all the time he needed.

While the moon crept back into its warm covers that were the horizon, Merlin waited as Elyan crawled into his bed roll, now done with his watch, and tried to sleep. Pulling his water-impermeable blanket tighter around his shoulders, Merlin scanned the mists, but there wasn't much to see. He lost interest when nothing happened.

He recited a chosen spell once more in his head before opening his mouth and letting it run smoothly and quietly over his tongue.

A peculiar, tingling, but not necessarily unpleasant sensation tickled his ears, making him twitch and look like he had ants in his pants. As all the miniscule bones healed inside his head, taking all of two minutes, he was overwhelmed by the raucous snores from his sleeping companions, but to him it was a symphonic angel choir. He could hear again!

Within moments, Merlin had magicked both Arthur and Gwaine into an even deeper sleep, to prevent them from waking as their ears were healed as well. They twitched and sluggishly pawed the side of their heads as though dozily swatting away a mosquito, but they remained asleep through the whole procedure, and Merlin was able to enjoy his watch, knowing that everyone's auditory abilities were safe.

Once, in the far distance, he heard a shrill shriek, but he sang softly to himself as the haunting sounded echoed away from existence, leaving only silence over the moor.

* * *

**Credit to the poem (in the public domain ~ I checked) by Alfred Noyes, "The Highwayman." Great poem, lovely song, especially when sung by Loreena McKennitt :)**


	15. Don't Follow the Light

~15~ Don't Follow the Light

"Shouldn't we wake him?"

"Yeah, if you feel like screaming yourself hoarse."

"Just shake him."

"I tried, but he won't budge. He must be totally exhausted."

"Well, we can't exactly _leave_ him here."

"Why not?"

"My ear is fine now. Perhaps his are, too?"

"Alright, move aside." There was the sound of boots on soft ground, and then a rustle of impermeable cloth as someone leaned down over the servant. "Wake—!"

CRACK!

"_OW!_"

Both Arthur and Merlin groaned and clutched their heads, the sound of colliding skulls sending sympathetic teeth grinding from all those present.

"You _buffoon!_" Arthur snapped as he fell back away from where his servant lay, massaging his forehead. Merlin, who had sat up abruptly as the king screamed in his ear, crashed back onto his sleeping roll in a daze, knowing that a lump was going to rise where his head had cracked against Arthur's.

"Dollop-head!" the servant snarled back.

"Idiot!"

"_Prat!_"

"Dunderheads, the both of you!" Gwaine intervened.

All but one were at a loss on how such a miracle could occur, and so they simply named it just that: a miracle.

* * *

"Now," said Bain. "What are we going to do about Daphne's trail?"

The question hung as thickly and as problematic as the fog. Merlin's pack with the cloth the others had found in Daphne's camp, not to mention the coat he'd worn on the night he was first attacked by Vraal, had gone missing in the wyrm skirmish. Now that Bain's dragon teeth had followed Arthur's scent, Daphne's was lost.

"And good luck finding the site of the fight," Leon grunted flatly.

The company had to be extra diligent in keeping itself from wandering into unfathomed pools and ravenous bogs as a direction was chosen and followed.

Merlin gingerly stepped around a bunch of swamp mushrooms of undetermined properties, and when he looked up, he cocked his head as he noticed something in the distance, barely detectable in the heavy mists.

"What's that?" he asked aloud, indicating with his chin at the pea-sized blur of yellow light, seeming floating by itself, parallel to the companions. He stepped towards it, curious, only for Arthur's hand to fall heavily and stiffly on his shoulder.

"Don't. Turn away, do not look at it again."

"What? Why? Is there something—"

"_Shh!_ Just keep moving forward."

"I don't—"

Arthur shoved at him impatiently. "Do as I say!"

"What's going on back there?" Leon turned in question, but before he could face about entirely, he, too, noticed the dull ochre orb. "What's that?"

"Don't follow the light!" Arthur hissed, pushing Merlin ahead of him again, who stumbled, splashing water everywhere.

"He's right," said Bain gravely, looking slightly pale. His raven on his shoulder cawed and took flight, and was swiftly devoured by the fog. "It's—"

"A Wanderer," Merlin muttered, recalling suddenly, from several days ago, the book of dark creatures where he had found facts about vampyres and wyrms. The Wanderers, the unfathomable, grey hooded inhabitants of Wraith Marsh.

"A what? What's a Wanderer?" Elyan made to move closer curiously, but both Merlin and Arthur lunged forward to stop him. Then the warlock made to ask Arthur how he knew about them in the first place, but Bain ushered them onward.

"We must not dawdle, comrades! Press forward, do not follow the light."

Gwaine held back as the others hastened on, but as Arthur hissed his name, he tore his gaze from the intriguing light and followed, and the misguiding orb of dead gold was left alone.

They had nearly gone two miles before they slowed from the brisk walk, and then Merlin finally fell back beside Arthur, noticing how ashen the king had become.

"You met one, didn't you?" It wasn't really a question. Arthur looked at him, somber.

"I had the misfortune to wander into its presence." He blinked at his choice of words.

The marsh's Voices rose then, like a dark omen to Arthur's words, whispering, tantalizing and sourceless, and unwilling to share the secrets of their forbidding land.

The servant and the king looked at each other. They both shot a glance over their shoulders and then hastened on, wary of catching sight of the light again.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

It was done.

Daphne the Dagger stepped within the large ring of seven tall, round-top stone monoliths, each over three times her height and carved with simple yet intricate whorls and curlicues. They hummed with the dormant magic of a past age, creating a barely detectable pressure on the air, like the anticipation of lightning about to strike.

Five paces before each monolith, set with equal distances between them, were the seven pedestals with the seven _ą__nima g__ē__mm__ą__. _First was Red, devoid of the gold necklace, and beside that was Blue, and then Green, with Purple and Black closest to Daphne, then Yellow, and last was White. Each soul gem glowed with a faint aura befitting their respective colour, and hummed with the same pulse as the monoliths. They sang as well, a waxing and waning chorus of mournful souls trapped within the transparent gems, almost too quiet to hear.

And at the centre of the circle of monoliths and ring of pedestals was the marble table, the corners carved with grinning skulls which were crowned with sobbing, dripping candles. Lying on the table were two corpses, one of a man, the other, a child. Their bodies had been almost perfectly preserved, but their bones had been eaten away by the marshes. The remains reeked of ancient decay, dark grey and flaccid. Daphne wasn't repulsed, only sorrowful, of the sight. Besides, she could give them their bones back.

As she stepped through the developing wards, closer to the centre of the ring and the table, the hum of the stones intensified, becoming a dull throb, like the earth's very heartbeat. It didn't bother her, not anymore. She took a deep breath, swallowing past the persistent lump in her throat and blinking back salty tears. She ran her finger along the soft, boneless remains of her late lover and then of her deceased child.

Necromancy. Even the thought of it sent her lip curling in disgust. But what choice had she? Her whole life has been unfair. Why can't she have those she loved?

"Is all prepared?"

Daphne glanced behind her to see her necromancer sister, Naomi, enter the ring from the cover of the surrounding trees. Her black robes were drenched to the knee but she seemed not to care. In her left hand, she carried her wooden, skull-headed staff. The Dagger nodded.

"It is."

"Very good." Even so, Naomi checked each soul gem herself. "All must be perfect for the Nameless One."

The very title sent shivers down Daphne's spine. "Need we ask it? The Nameless One?"

Naomi glanced at her sister in surprise. "Of course. The Cailleach wouldn't possibly oblige us. This is the only way."

"But the Nameless One seems so...evil."

"Seems? Seems? The Nameless One ___is_ evil! It ___defines_ evil! We have been over this before, baby sister."

Daphne bowed her head submissively. "I just wish there was another way."

"There ___is_ another way. I can summon a random spirit and have it reanimate Kale and little Adam here, and you can forever love rotting corpses for a husband and son."

When Daphne lifted her head, her eyes were hard. "I did not say I will back down, not after all this time." Her sister smiled, condescending and almost chiding.

"Of course you didn't. All will be settled, you'll see." She wrapped one arm around her sister and cuddled her. "You'll see."

Together, they retreated from from the ring, glancing at each monolith as they glowered reproachfully down at them. Unfazed, Daphne stiffened her back and breathed heavily again, taking the lead back to the house. There, they waited, waited for the right time, the only time, to arrive.


	16. Spirits

~16~ Spirits

The companions travelled while they pondered, unable to make any sensible suggestions or prepositions about how they were going to find the residence of Daphne the Dagger. Before they realized it, they had topped a knoll overlooking an expanse of more distasteful swamp, no different from anywhere else in the god-forsaken land.

"Hate to sound...morbid," Elyan said suddenly, "but I think we're going to die here."

Leon grunted and sat on a boulder, rotating his stiffening ankles. "It would be a nice reprieve."

Merlin, breathing heavily from the ascent, perked suddenly like a startled horse. He scanned around, over the ocean of fog surrounding them. "You feel that?"

"Feel what?" Arthur looked around as well, but was too fatigued to sound genuinely interested.

"That, that _throb_..." The servant paused when he realized that whatever he could detect, the others could not, and they proved that by giving him blank or puzzled expressions. That could only mean two things: he was going insane, or magic was in the air. "I...guess I'm just tired." He turned away from the others, feigning sheepishness, but in actuality, he was straining his senses to their extremes, to find where the magic was coming from.

"Are you all right?"

Merlin jumped and opened his eyes. Gwaine was leaning in from the side, brow knotted in a concerned frown.

"You've been standing like that for at least five minutes."

"Was I?" The warlock tried to shrug it off with a grin, but his nonchalance never reached his eyes. Gwaine noticed.

"The fever. It's not coming back, is it?"

Arthur overheard them and came over. "What's this? Are you getting sick?"

"I'm _fine!_" Merlin coated his words with scorn. "Can't a man have a little time with his thoughts?"

The king and knight glanced once at each other, eyebrows slightly raised, then they stiffly turned away from Merlin and wandered back to the others. As they did so, Bain's raven, having returned after hours of exploring, abandoned the bard's shoulder and flapped noisily to perch on Merlin's. He ignored her until she cawed right in his ear, but as he tried to wave her away, she pecked his fingers, chortling cheekily. Glowering, he was about to shake his whole body to be rid of her when she suddenly fluffed up her feathers until she was almost completely round. Her bottom eye lid rose to meet the top and she dozed off. Merlin had not the heart to knock her away then.

"So where do we go now?"

Though the question wasn't aimed at him, Merlin wracked his mind for an answer. There was magic here, he could feel it even now. It was weak, weak enough so that Bain couldn't detect it like he could. As he slowly cocked his head from one way to another, and as he relaxed his breathing and roiling thoughts, it was like when beams of light in a magnifying glass are focused so they come together, intensifying the light and heat that's produced; one single area is singled out and enunciated. And suddenly, Merlin knew where to go.

"It's that way," he said, calmly and surely, so much so that his companions could only blink and stare for a few moments before speaking.

"What's that way? And which way?"

In reply to Elyan, Merlin pointed. Arthur snorted in derision.

"Why that way? Why not that way?" The king indicated the opposite direction. "Or that way? Or _that_ way?" He waved in different directions in turn, impatience clear in his posture. "Tell me, _Mer_lin. What _possible_ reason could there _possibly_ be that we should _possibly_—"

"'Cause of the green light right there." Merlin tilted his chin briefly, a light scowl of irritation darkening his features. The emerald glow pulsed from the depths of the fog a few miles away.

Elyan frowned. "That...wasn't there before, was it?"

"Does it matter?" Merlin snapped. "It's there now. So, we can go there, while we see it, as it seems to be the only thing that's breaking this bloody, monotonous land or we can wait like stupid cows until it disappears and we're left back where we started, even though we haven't gone anywhere in the _first place!_"

Merlin remembered shining witchlight into an unsuspecting herd of deer one night. They had all turned in unison with their eyes wide open and their bodies completely still. The expressions the knights, bard, and king gave him reminded him so much of that event that he had to withhold a grin of amusement. Even so, the corners of his mouth twitched.

For a while, the only sound was Bain's raven rustling her feathers and settling down to a more comfortable position. Then Gwaine grinned.

"Alright. Those in favour?" He raised an arm and glanced at his comrades, nodding all the while.

Arthur rolled his eyes.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

Merlin took the lead, careful to not make it look like he knew where he was going – which he didn't, really – but the undetermined magic source guided him as surely as the stars. To deter suspicion, he stopped when he could and climbed a tree, which speckled the land sparingly, and checked for the mysterious green light to keep them on track when the fog became too condensed.

It was during one such cover attempt that Merlin was suddenly bombarded by a wave of vertigo. Clinging to the truck of a gnarled tree like a lemur, the warlock swallowed the wave of nausea and closed his eyes. When he opened them, the wave became a tsunami and he nearly fell.

_No_, he thought, _no, not now!_

"Oi! Merlin! What's going on up there?"

No reply.

"What, have you grown a sudden fear of heights? Let's go!"

Peeling his fingers, the nails of which had created crescent groves in the bark, off the trunk, Merlin dropped from branch to branch, eyes closed to withstand the sudden spurts of dizziness. As his feet hit the soft, sludgy ground once more, he wavered and covered his throbbing eyes, stifling a groan. Someone caught him as he began to fall over, giving him time to stabilize his feet. He mumbled a few choice curses to himself and forced his sickness down. He'd forgotten that it had now been two days since he'd last treated his shoulder with the mandrake root, and though the bite was nearly healed, the vampyre venom, thin now as it was, still fought to stop his heart.

"Are you all right? Do you need to rest?"

Merlin shook his head at Arthur's offer. "No. We don't have time. It'll only get worse the longer we wait."

"Does it matter?" asked Gwaine. "If we don't have any of that _conveniently_ _rare_ root, then what difference does it make if we rest or..."

The silence fell thicker than the surrounding mist.

Leon kicked at a fallen log. His foot dented two inches into the soggy wood. "I hate vampyres."

Instead of resting, the company put on a burst of speed, disregarding comfort and caution for haste. As they approached their target, the pulsing aura of ancient magic thrummed in Merlin's head. The source was now at least a mile off, maybe two. Around them, the marsh seemed even more mossy than before, covering pools of water and adding a tint of green to the monotonous grey.

"Hold." Arthur raised a clenched fist, not out of discipline but automatically, and the whole party splashed to a halt.

"What's wrong?" asked Leon, peering around warily.

The king looked stiff, and beads of sweat appeared on his brow. "I...I don't know. I...got this sort of...strange..."

"...Sire?"

The silence stretched on, and then everyone jumped at the abrupt explosion of water. Merlin had turned around suddenly, to face their flank.

"Who's there?" he demanded, eyes never still for more than a moment. The others frowned.

"Merlin?" said Leon, also watching for anything. "There's no one but us, Merlin."

The warlock pointed. "No, I saw someone. There."

While the others looked for that someone in the swirling mists, Arthur drew his sword, _Excalibur_, making everyone jump once more.

"For gods' sake, what's _wrong_ with you two?" Bain growled, glancing from servant to king and back again, but there was a twinge of malaise in his words.

Leon drew his sword as well. "What is this...this..." he faded off. He looked frightened, unsteady like Arthur now.

Merlin swallowed, looking at something, it seemed, that no one else could see. "There...there's a..."

"A _what?_"

"A girl." The servant took several slow strides forward, trance like, off the path and into the pools of placid water and spongy moss islands. No one stopped him, fear creeping up to clutch their hearts from behind.

"What are you doing?" Arthur croaked nervously, not lowering his sword. Merlin did not answer and took another step deeper into the pool, pointing.

"Can't you see her? She's standing right there..." He strode faster.

"Merlin, no! Don't go there!" Gwaine lunged forward and snagged the warlock's shirt just as a ghostly spectre rushed at them through the fog, wailing like a horrified woman, dark eye sockets emphasizing her misty face. The knight yanked the servant back behind himself protectively, drawing and swinging his sword in a single motion. The blade sliced uselessly through the screaming phantom, and Gwaine was thrown off-balance just as Merlin slipped sideways and sank waist deep through the moss, into the murky, sludgy water. The knight's legs caught in the muck beneath the surface, and he fell into the deeper pool with the warlock. Both began to sink ever further even as they fought to free themselves; it was like swimming in molasses.

Arthur pushed past the others and tried to reach his companions.

"Don't, sire!" Bain lunged forward and held the king back. "You'll be sucked in as well! Leave them, they might be able to get themselves out."

"Release me!" Arthur snapped, pulling free.

"Merlin, Gwaine, take this!" Elyan yelled, throwing the trapped travellers one end of a coarse rope from his knapsack. Merlin had to twist his upper body around to get it, and he clutched at the lifeline like a limpet, gasping in fear. Gwaine was in too awkward a position to grab the rope, and he floundered helplessly, struggling to keep his head above the bog.

"Gwaine!" Merlin released the line with one arm and reached back for the knight, but he was too far. He let go entirely and tried to drag himself over to him, but it felt like he was wading through honey in the middle of winter. His heart skipped as the bog reached over his chest and crept to his neck. He could barely move his arms anymore, even though he held them above the surface.

_Come on, come on!_ He shut his eyes even as they flashed like twin doubloons, and suddenly, he was able to grasp the sinking knight by the wrist.

"The rope!" he yelled, and a few seconds later, the rough line was splashing into the muck before him, and he snatched it with his free hand.

Arthur grabbed the other end with Elyan, and was swiftly accompanied by Leon. Bain waited by the shore to snag the two hapless companions as the other men began to haul back on the line. It wasn't enough.

Gwaine spat as muddy water dripped in through the sides of his mouth while Merlin struggled to keep his shoulders above the bog, with minimal success. The rope slipped through his fingers, his muscles cramped and flesh raw from burns.

"Hold on, idiot!" Arthur snapped as he hauled back uselessly on the line. He and the two knights might as well be dragging a shipwreck to the surface of the sea. "Can't you do anything?" the king demanded of Bain. "You used magic with the dragon teeth. A little help would be appreciated here!"

"I don't know what I can do," the hunter replied helplessly with a shrug. "But if we don't get these two out in under a minute, all is lost."

"Gee, thanks for seeing the bright side of things!"

Merlin heard Bain, and felt despair rise faster than the bog around him. He himself will have to use magic – he saw no alternative. Not for himself, but for Gwaine.

He was on the brink of an incantation that would free them both when he saw something he did not expect. A loop of semi-transparent, ghostly rope dropped from above and fell over his head. He could hear those on shore gasping with alarm, and tried to turn his neck enough to see what was going on. What he saw he could not explain: humanoid..._shapes_ rushed around and _through_ the startled companions, waving ropes and communicating silently. One, a haggard looking man, was wielding the other end of the rope that had lassoed around Merlin's neck. Without thinking, the warlock released the line his friends were holding and put his arm through the loop so that it fell around one side of his neck and under his left armpit. He was vaguely surprised when he could feel the ghostly rope, looking like it had been made from the eternal fog itself, beneath his trembling fingers.

"Merlin, what are you doing? Grab the rope!" Elyan roared, then flinched as another apparition stepped up beside him and threw a second lasso, which landed neatly by the first: around Merlin's neck.

Like the other, the servant moved the translucent loop so it was under his left armpit, never letting go of Gwaine as he did so. Then, the ghosts began to pull, much to the surprise of all.

Arthur watched dumbly as a third and fourth spirit tossed the servant two more loops, which fell in place with the first couple, and started to yank the companions free. "Grab a rope!" the king blurted, and helped the closest aiding ghost in his endeavour. The others hastened to obey.

In addition to the rope pullers, another two spirits approached with a ladder, which they placed on the bog and non-verbally encouraged Merlin to use to help pry himself up with one arm.

Had the servant been alone, the task would swiftly be accomplished; however, with Gwaine as a second weight, it was near impossible...until the warlock unconsciously intervened. With a light stroke of inconspicuous magic, the bog around the knight loosened just so.

Merlin's limbs were shaking when he finally released Gwaine's wrist on dry-ish ground, trembling as he remained on his hands and knees. "Thank you," he gasped, finally looking up. "Thank..." No one was listening. They were all watching as the ghosts coiled up their ropes and turned away, blending into the surrounding fog like they had never been.

* * *

Merlin tried to stand, but before he could straighten, he was sent staggering by a furious shove by the king. He landed face first in a puddle and emerged sputtering.

"Fool!" Arthur snapped. "What the hell do you think you were _doing?_"

"Arthur!" Gwaine lunged forward and grabbed him as Merlin quailed. "Stop it! It was an accident—"

"An accident that nearly got you killed! Got you _both_ killed." Arthur glared, yanking free. He watched his cringing servant crawl out of the water. "_What_ were you trying to do? Chase a wisp?"

"I saw someone, out there in the fog," Merlin protested, flicking a finger. "A little girl."

"Oh, and is she there now?" Arthur crossed his arms. "Do you see her still? Was she worth _dying for—?_" He stopped, blinked, and heaved a great breath. "Merlin, I..."

"It's nothing."

"No, I'm sorry. Please—"

"It's _nothing_." Merlin stood, shaky from the earlier ordeal, and casually looked around as if searching for the ghosts that had saved him and Gwaine. They were gone.

Arthur shook his head. "It's _not_ nothing. I should not have lost my temper."

"I thought she might have needed help or something. The ghost. She was just a little kid."

"What could you have done?" asked the king, bewildered. "She was a _ghost_. Dead. Beyond any of our help."

"And she wasn't a very _nice_ one," Gwaine grumbled, pulling off a stringy chunk of plant life from his shoulder. "Led us straight into that bog."

"It can only expected." Bain was standing a bit to the side, trying to penetrate the surrounding mists and seek out their secrets. "The sudden appearance of ghosts can only mean one thing: necromancy. We are getting close."

* * *

**Did Arthur losing his temper like that seem a little OOC? He was just so angry, angry because Merlin had gotten Gwaine in danger (by his reckoning) and the whole incident had scared him. No one enjoys being scared like that.**

**Update: I've changed the end a little. Arthur still loses his temper but not as bad. Thanks a-wonderful-afterlife for pointing out that painfully OOC moment :)**


	17. Closing In

~17~ Closing In

They had lost the direction of the green light's source, and Merlin could say nothing without arousing suspicion. There were trees, far enough away to only be the size of their fingers, but no one wanted to stray far from the islands of the drier ground in order to get a higher view, lest they become trapped in the gluttonous bog. They weren't sure how fickle those aiding ghosts were, but why risk it?

Every time someone's foot splashed, the rest turned to grab them, only to continue sheepishly as the occurrences continued to be false alarms. The stretch of time and absence of spirits did nothing to calm their nerves as they decided a path and took it, trying to find that enigmatic green light noticed hours before. Merlin could feel it, of course, as it was like a pulse of energy...dark energy. The taint of necromancy could almost be tasted; it reminded him of the Perilous Lands, of Nimue, and even, the last time he saw her, the Lady Morgana. He tried to not let it show, but black magic had the annoying habit of making him jumpy.

Not a half a mile passed before Elyan suddenly stopped, making Leon crash into him from behind.

"What are you doing?" the knight snapped, dabbing the sweat from his brow.

"Can't you feel that?" Elyan held perfectly still, eyes trained on nothing, frowning in concentration.

"What?"

"I feel it, too," Merlin blurted, relieved that he was no longer the only one.

"Now both of you are overly-exhausted." Arthur pulled a tangle of rotten twigs from around his ankles. "We will rest here."

"No, I sense it as well, now," said Bain. He looked at Leon and Arthur. "Just relax, and hold still."

There a few moments of silence, where the enlightened three watched the others in expectation.

"There is...something," Arthur muttered, opening his eyes.

"Perhaps if we get closer," said Merlin eagerly, taking the lead. "Let's go—!" He tripped over submerged debris and got drenched in a marshy pool.

Arthur snickered. Merlin glowered.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

If the king was sceptical before, his doubt vanished as they found themselves suddenly upon a path, once cobbled but now rundown. There were signs of passage, however, and it didn't take much for a master tracker like Arthur to find them.

"Someone has been here," he said, rising from a crouch. "And recently."

Merlin had already travelled far ahead, until he was no taller than the last digit of the smallest finger. Spontaneously, he turned and indicated urgently to his companions. At a light but swift jog, they joined him and looked to where he was pointing.

"There it is." The green light could be seen glowing in a large, dense grove of defeated trees, illuminating the mists around it like a fire would. But, as they watched, the colour diffused to purple, and then blue.

"Magic," Gwaine grunted.

Merlin walked forward, unfazed. Then he swallowed the sudden swell of nausea and ignored the heated flash that boiled beneath his skin. He paused for a moment, but then hastened on, determined to fight it, fight the fever. It was returning, slowly, but surely. Arthur failed to be oblivious as he caught up and noticed the warlock's face growing ashen.

"Are you all right?"

Merlin was surprise to hear the genuine concern in Arthur's tone. He shrugged it off. "Cool as a cockroa—I'm fine." Then his vision swam and he stumbled, landing face-first into a murky pool that had tried to engulf their new found road.

Gwaine passed him. "Bye, Merlin. Have a nice trip, see you next fall."

"Not _now_, Gwaine!" Arthur snapped.

Merlin pushed himself to his hands and knees, only to fall over again, dizzy. The whole line of knights halted and surrounded him worriedly. Arthur knelt by his servant and felt his sopping forehead, damp not only from the water. "We can't continue with him like this. We must stop for now."

"As you wish, your majesty," Bain replied, as the knights nodded.

"I said I'm fine," Merlin growled, trying once more to stand. He managed, but he wavered, his gaze tipsy and unfocused.

Arthur grunted. "Yeah, and I'm a toad."

"You look like one."

"Shut it, Merlin."

Merlin did shut it. In fact, he would have shut it even if he had a choice whether to shut it or not. He collapsed and would've drowned in the swamp had Arthur not grasped fistful of his cloak and pulled him out, cursing all the while.

"Why are you always a problem, Merlin?" he snarled through his teeth, but the servant could not reply. Arthur tried to shake him awake, but his eyes only opened a slit and looked around sightlessly before closing again. He muttered, his lips barely twitching, though he said nothing intelligible.

Arthur cursed vulgarly, making even Gwaine's eyebrow jerk. "This is wonderful, just _wonderful_." The king looked to Bain. "How long does he have?"

The bard frowned, thoughtful. "Well, had he been bitten recently, then a day at most. Now...a few days, anyway. A few very uncomfortable days. But his demise may be hastened by the cold and wet—"

"Then let's get him somewhere dry," said Gwaine, crouching. He picked the servant up by an arm and leg and threw him across both shoulders. He grunted. "_Whoo_, either Merlin's getting fat, or I am very tired."

Elyan stretched the knotted muscles in his legs. "Feels like I just walked ten miles through molasses."

Arthur did his best to hide the fatigue that had just caught up to him as well, slamming into him like a hammer on an anvil. It had been too long since they've had a warm fire to sleep near, with a full stomach and a heart at ease. He couldn't help but wonder if he had, ultimately, led them all to die in this foreign land of damp and neglect.

_And if any were to die_, thought he, _Merlin would die first_.

Leon seemed to have read his despaired expression. "I have no regrets, sire."

The others murmured in agreement, though Bain remained impassive. Arthur looked gratefully at them all, then frowned as he saw Merlin twitch and open his eyes.

Gwaine wasn't fast enough to catch the servant as he suddenly wiggled free of the knight's grasp and rolled off his shoulders, landing with a splash in a pool. He sputtered water as he lifted his head, and he wiped his eyes and nose before standing.

"I have _many_ regrets," he said, and grinned as Arthur glared poisoned daggers at him.

* * *

**Yeah, I know. This chapter is pretty much fluff (am I using the term right?) But the next one would have been too long with it attached, so *shrug***

**Did anyone get the line Gwaine said, the "have a nice trip, see you next fall?" It was something my grade 2 teacher said when another teacher came into the room and tripped on the threshold. x3 I shouldn't be laughing but I am.**


	18. The Mandrake

~18~ The Mandrake

"It comes in waves. I'll be fine," Merlin insisted, pushing away the offer of support, again. "Let's just concentrate on finding Daphne and getting Gwen's soul back."

Still, the others watched him closely, lest he pass out again. They also glanced around for ghosts all the while, as they had spotted two more since the ones with the ropes, but they were distant, and barely paid those who still breathed any attention. They were getting more numerous, however, as time passed and distance was devoured by their pace.

"Do you think this is Daphne's doing?" Elyan asked, watching as the spirit of a woman with a basket of ghostly laundry faded into the fog.

Bain said, "Necromancy is very influential when in strong doses. The sorcerer, or sorceress, can be going about her hollow deeds not realizing that she was also summoning those who had died in the area, as vague reflections. Some, like we saw, help those in need, and perhaps had done the same thing when alive. Others yet, also like we saw, can be malicious, and draw unfortunates to their deaths."

"Poor things," Merlin muttered, watching a dog play with its transparent master in a pool.

"They are unaffected by your pity, young man," Bain replied, not unkindly. "It's best to leave them be."

The cobbled path, faint and broken as it was, led them ever closer to the dense grove of grey trees with the glowing lights. They approached two mounds of round stones on either side of the road, a sign sticking up from one of them, the marks scored on it long faded.

"Warnings, perhaps?" whispered Leon, glancing around cautiously. As they got closer, they noticed that some of the round stones were not stones at all, but were, in fact, human skulls. "Yep, they're warnings all right."

As they passed the twin mounds, Merlin suddenly shuddered, teeth chattering. "S-so cold," he murmured, wrapping his arms around himself tightly. Whether it was the fever or being in the presence of necromancy that made him shiver, he didn't know. Then he saw the others shrinking as if from the chill as well.

"It smells like...death," Elyan said quietly, tugging his cloak about himself snugger. He looked pallid.

The area had once been a settlement, that much was clear. The stump remains of buildings and houses could be seen stabbing up through the bog, black and rotten. There were a few wooden fences and walkways, barely standing, looking like dark silhouettes against the fog. As the companions passed one of the more intact ruins, one that had parts of all four walls, a bookshelf, a standing stone fireplace with a chimney, and, strangely, a table, Arthur could have sworn he saw someone sitting at that table, leaning over a tankard of drink. He blinked, and it was gone.

The knights and king kept their hands on their sword pommels, while Bain had his bow strung and Merlin simply kept a sharp eye on their surroundings, ready for anything. The servant jumped once as a screamer (as the companions had dubbed the ghosts who shrieked as hellishly as banshees but as harmlessly as humans) shot across the marsh through the mists towards him. Automatically swinging a fist, his knuckles brushed through nothing as the wailing spectre passed through him and vanished, swirling from existence like a snuffed candle's smoke. Merlin shuddered but continued on, refusing to meet the gaze of his comrades. He was reminded too much of the dreaded Dorocha to remain calm in the screamers' presence.

Two more ghosts tried to draw them off the path, while a third attempted a conversation, only to slump and walk away in sorrow as he discovered that they couldn't hear him at all. Another spirit was leading a transparent cow through the bog, and at one point, echoing laughter could be faintly detected by a pair of young children playing tag around the remains of a building. Be it benevolent, malicious, or indifferent souls, the companions could feel no security, and their agitated nerves grew ever more edgy with every step they took.

Gwaine claimed to have seen a Wanderer once, but when the rest turned to look, nothing was there.

"Just getting jumpy, I suppose," the knight said, scoffing himself, trying to sound relaxed. Still, his smile faded quickly and his aura grew tense, and his hand tightened on his sword hilt.

A ghost dog barked at them, making them all flinch.

"This is ridiculous!" Leon cried as they recovered. "They're just harmless wisps of air..._SHUT UP!_" he roared at the yapping dog, and it shrank before scurrying away, tail between its legs. Gwaine couldn't help but snicker.

"Always had a way with animals, Leon. Even dead ones."

Merlin was grinning, too, but then he suddenly doubled over, hand on his knees, as his head swam. Swallowing nausea, he hoped no one saw, but Arthur seemed to have grown an annoying tendency to notice that which he shouldn't.

"Next time, Merlin, get bitten by a stray mutt or a squirrel, not a vampyre." He pulled one of the warlock's arms around his shoulders and took Merlin's weight.

"I'll try harder, then," the servant slurred, half dazed. His legs felt like jelly and his knees wouldn't work. Arthur was pretty much dragging him onward, but he couldn't do anything to help.

"Pick up your feet," the king grunted.

"But then you'll be carrying me," Merlin replied cheekily. He slapped himself, startling the king. "I'll be fine. Let me go."

"Not bloody likely." Arthur was about to pick up his servant, regardless to both of their dignities, when he saw a ghost beckoning to him. At first he ignored it, but then he noticed that it was indicating frantically to the water at its feet, and then at Merlin.

"What's with her?" asked Elyan, squinting at the spectre, standing close to the ruins of a building, as she continued to point at the water and at Merlin. Then she faded away, her hands on her hips as though impatient.

"That was weird," Gwaine muttered, then wandered over to the site where the girl had been.

"Don't!" Elyan went to grab the knight and prevent him from leaving the path, but Gwaine merely brushed his hand away and continued until he was knee deep in water. Near the place where the ghost had been, he reached into the water and felt around.

"Ah-ha!"

"What?" The others approached tentatively as Gwaine tugged on something, his back to them. With a mighty yank, he uprooted his goal and staggered, splashing water everywhere as he regained his balance. He looked down at the object in his hands in triumph, then stiffened.

"_Yeesh_. It's _hideous_."

"Stop looking at your reflection and tell us what's in your hands!" Leon grinned, nudging Bain. The knight scowled at the lack of response.

Gwaine turned. "Congratulations. It's a girl...I think."

Everyone grimaced, but all were unmistakably intrigued by the gnarly, grey, human-shaped root in Gwaine's possession. Slightly shorter than his forearm was long, it had a bulbous head with slight dents that gave it humanoid features, a bulging belly, and a pair of arms and legs that ended with wispy root hairs instead of fingers and toes. It had a small patch of short grass for hair, and it smelled like flaccid radishes, burnt asparagus, and old shrimp.

"What are you doing with that? Put it down!" Leon said in disgust even as Arthur crept closer, inquisitive in his repulsion.

"Is it a plant?"

Bain answered first, looking starchy as the pungent odour of the tuber hit him like a wall. "It is indeed a plant, a plant that we have so desperately required for the past few days. A swamp mandrake root, and plump for harvesting, too."

Merlin perked at the name, as did Arthur, though he looked like he was trying to hide it, unsuccessfully. "Give it here," the king said, and Gwaine tossed it to him. Arthur fumbled with it before managing to cradle it like an infant in his arms. Then a peculiar expression overcame him, and he let it fall.

Only Merlin noticed the expression. Bain bent to pick up the root as Gwaine muttered, "Butter fingers."

Desperately wanting to ask the king what that was about, the warlock held his tongue as Bain said, "We need a fire for this to work best. And fresh bandages—"

"Great. I'll just pull them out o' me ass, then, shall I?" Gwaine said flatly, then grinned.

"—Or you can eat it," added Bain, nodding at Merlin, who grimaced.

"Like _hell_ I'm eating that!" the servant scoffed.

Arthur scowled. "Well, unless you can conjure up a fire or, as Gwaine said, _pull it out of your ass_, you're gonna eat it!"

Merlin met his glare. "Make me."

* * *

They made him.

* * *

The warlock sat sullenly, chewing stiffly on a chunk of mandrake root and glowering sparks at his companions as they planned their next move. Every time he finished a piece (or doggedly spat one out), Gwaine was there to knife off a fresh slice and happily hand it over. Merlin kept turning his head away like a stubborn child, but the knight would clear his throat warningly and the servant would then take it, knowing that if he didn't, the others would gang up on him and force it down his throat. It happened once, and it wasn't something he would exactly recommend for anyone else.

As he finally finished the piece in his mouth, he pretended to keep chewing, but Gwaine wasn't fooled.

"Come on, Merlin, open the draw bridge," he said, voice singsong and mockingly sweet, as he cut off a chunk of mandrake root and held it out for the servant. Stifling a growl, Merlin snatched it, briefly hesitating before shoving it in. Like every other time, he winced as he chewed – the odour was bad, but the taste was worse. The texture was stringy and unyielding, like ginger, but it didn't taste like ginger; it was more like a mixture of broccoli (_old_ broccoli) sour cream (actual _sour_ cream) and raw potatoes (the uncooked kind). Bain had told him that he _had_ to chew it in order for its healing properties to do their duty, but Merlin was sure that it was simply for the sake of amusement for everyone else.

"Oh, come now, it can't be _that_ bad," Arthur snorted, wandering over as Merlin retched emptily. After the warlock muttered a few choice curses, one of which Gwaine immediately went about converting to memory, Arthur grinned and took the root from the knight before slicing a piece off. "Just take it like a man, boy." He bit, then gagged before sputtering it out, much to the hilarity of all.

* * *

Merlin had finished the 'leg' of the mandrake by the time he felt the fever ebb away like the morning tide. The flashes of heat and cold ceased, while sweat stopped beading on his forehead and the fatigue of fever left him for good. Though his body was still weary, at least it wasn't from the vampyre venom.

But his mouth still tasted like an old cabbage casserole.

He tried to chew on a piece of dried meat to banish the foul remains that clung to his tongue like all bad tastes do, but even the salty flavour wasn't enough.

"I _hate_ you," he grumbled, drawing his words out, as everyone grinned at him like fools. He tried throwing the rest of the mandrake away, but Gwaine was walking behind him just as he went to chuck it, and the knight snatched it right from his hand in the over-swing.

"Ah-ah-ah!" he taunted, storing the root in his pack and grinning cheekily at Merlin's scowl.

"We have less than a mile to go," announced Arthur, staring coolly at the grove of flab trees, unfazed by blue light that lit the fog above it. "I want this Daphne caught before nightfall...If night hasn't already fallen. I think it has, actually..."

"Let's _do this thing!_" Gwaine bellowed, oblivious to the strange expressions Leon and Elyan then exchanged.

Despite the foul, fuzzy taste in his mouth, Merlin eagerly fell into step with the others, now unburdened with the troublesome vampyre fever. Even the screamers, so previously terrifying, were not but a loud, cold wind, and were treated as such. Now, his concentration was solely on the dull throb that pulsed through him every few seconds, like the earth's very heartbeat. He wasn't the only one either.

"What _is_ that?" asked Elyan aloud. The trees were now but forty paces away. Whatever lay in the middle of them was still hidden by the tense array of trunks.

"The works of necromancy," Bain said sombrely, speaking for the first time in a long while. No one would have guessed that just a few days ago, this was a joyful and rambunctious man. His eyes were hollow and empty of their previous spark. His raven had been missing for several hours. "We'd best be careful. There are more than just ghosts that rise from the dregs of the black art."

"What do you know of necromancy?" asked Arthur, falling abreast to the bard.

Bain frowned, then shrugged. "Better late the never," he muttered. "Necromancy can be done in a multitude of ways, the most common and least harmless being what you see now, which is merely restless spirits and the hollow husks of what once was. A step up is the revitalization of a corpse. A more risky endeavour, for the body is controlled by a kidnapped and imprisoned soul but enslaved by the necromancer. If he isn't paying attention, his rotting servant may rip him to shreds in his sleep.

"The more powerful of necromancers can summon a dead person even if there is no body to use," Bain continued. "One can easily be fooled by this magic, for the shell is whole. The mind is devoid of memory, however, and trapped by the conjurer. They cannot disobey their master."

_Lancelot_, Merlin thought, throat tightening. _Lady Morgana did that to Lancelot_. He bit his lip, remaining silent and remembering what Gaius had once told him, years ago.

"_Necromancy is the most difficult of all magical practices. Even in the days of the Old Religion, it was viewed with the utmost suspicion_."

"The most powerful necromancy is what we're about to face," Bain cautioned, interrupting Merlin's thoughts. "The most powerful, and most dangerous—"

"Of course," Gwaine grumbled, rolling his eyes. Bain lifted a conflicting finger.

"I understand your assumptions, Sir Knight, but you need not worry. I mean dangerous to the necromancer. I have not witnessed the actual act myself, and so the knowledge I am about to pass on to you is purely academical, from a book. By my understanding, for this form of necromancy, seven _ą__nima g__ē__mm__ą__, _or soul gems, are required. Seven full soul gems. Not many of these vessels exist anymore, several being lost or utterly destroyed, with good reason. It would appear that Daphne has miraculously and unfortunately found seven, but for what purpose? What has she to gain?"

The party remained silent for a while, pausing for rest in the cover of a mostly-ruined building, water up to their shins.

The hunter shook himself. "I'm not sure how it works, but somehow, a necromancer is able to...___trade_ the souls in the_ą____nima gēmm__ą _in return for the soul or souls of another. This is more powerful than any lesser form of necromancy, because not only does the desired soul get a full, flawless body back, it has a complete memory and goes about like it had never died."

"That doesn't sound too malicious," Leon muttered, frowning lightly. "It seems like Daphne has good intentions..."

"Good intentions or bad, she stole Gwen's soul for her selfish desires, and I mean to stop her!" Arthur thundered, water sloshing about his legs as he made for the path again. "No one's gonna trade Gwen's soul for anybody's!"

The others fell hastily into place and followed the king to the dense grove of drab trees, where, finally, they will face their prey and adversary.

* * *

**I remember now that there was the use of a mandrake in the beginning of Season 3, but I don't think it matters. It's a different type of mandrake then the one Morgana used to try and push Uther off the edge. :)**


	19. The Nameless One

~19~ The Nameless One

Daphne knew it was time. She could feel it.

The grey, flaccid corpses lying on the stone table seemed to glare reproachfully at Daphne and her sister as the the pair of them stepped from the trees, into the circle of tall, round-topped monoliths, and then the ring of _ąnima gēmmą_, all glowing and pulsing in sync. One by one, each would glow brighter and warmer than the rest for several minutes, but she wasn't sure why.

Taking a deep breath, she said, "Let's get this over with."

Naomi nodded, and stole a furtive glance at the corpse that had once been Daphne's husband, Kale. The Dagger didn't notice, but one would be curious to know how she would have reacted if she had.

The necromancer lifted her skull-headed staff high in both hands, standing near the stone table with the two lifeless bodies, soon to be resurrected. She then lowered the staff, holding it upright before her, and, with a deep tone in the tongue of the Old Religion, she chanted, "Oh, come to me, slaves of Death. To me, wanderers of the Lost. I summon thee to answer my call, to cross the Veil and heed by proposal." Again she spoke the rite, never wavering, never faltering or stuttering. Such mistakes could prove fatal. "Oh, come to me, slaves of Death..."

Yes, yes, Daphne could feel them coming! All around her, even now, she could see their haunting figures stepping through the shadowed trees. They were not like the ghosts, the side effects of the soul gems; they were blackly shrouded, and had no solid shape. Tendrils of darkness slithered from their humanoid forms as they passed between the trees, there one moment and gone the next. Lost souls. Black souls.

"I summon thee to answer my call..."

The air grew stale and the wind chilled. Breath plumed from Daphne's lips like smoke from a woodman's pipe. Her heart raced but she did not flee. Naomi's voice grew louder, stronger, enough so that she could barely hear the mournful souls wailing, trapped in their ąnima gēmmą as if knowing what was to come. There was a faint light emitting from the open mouth of the skull carved onto Naomi's staff.

"To me, wanderers of the Lost!"

There, a black form was solidifying before her, on the other side of the stone table where the corpses of Kale and his son, Daphne's son, lie prone. It appeared human one moment, but then beastly the next. Other times, it had no shape at all, and was like a hellish void of unfathomed origins.

It had no name that anyone could fathom, so it was given the title the Nameless One by those few who have seen it. Hardly creative, but Daphne wasn't about to start pointing fingers.

The necromancer finally stopped chanting. The trapped souls continued to keen sorrowfully in their prisons, but the wind fell still, as if awed by the Nameless One's presence. The massive monoliths around them throbbed more slowly now, their task being to keep the daemon from escaping into the world. The Nameless One seemed to notice this, and hissed with laughter. Its voice was neither male or female, but was as slippery as a serpent's.

"_Not many have been able to do...what you have done, sorceress_," it chortled, taking the form of a robed human. It was all black, like a silhouette, but seemed to swallow the light emitting from the soul gems. It was focused solely on Naomi, who was stiff to prevent herself from shaking. "_Half of the time, you mortals forget who is lord and who is slave, and who has the power to destroy them utterly and completely. I...praise you for your...precautions_." It seemed to be taking deep breaths whenever it paused, as though relishing the taste of fresh air, if swamp air could be fresh.

Daphne knew it was speaking of the ring of monoliths, set by the priests of the Old Religion many centuries ago. It had been common enough, in the few occasions when seven ąnima gēmmą came together and were used outside the ring of standing stones, for the necromancer to be taken by the Nameless One, and simply cease to exist. She was glad Naomi had the foresight to properly familiarize herself with the ritual before they attempted their endeavour.

As the necromancer sister drew in breath, the black void became some kind of four legged creature, perhaps a lion, again with no features or depth. She refused to let her voice waver as she said, "I have summoned you, my lord, with a preposition."

"_My, my. How noble you mortals have become_," the daemon hissed, metamorphosing into a human again. "_To give up the the souls of many...for the souls of few_." It seemed to shake its head in mock admiration. "_I_ am _impressed_."

Movement caught the corner of Daphne's eye, and she glanced over to see the other shapes, similar to the void before her, passing through the trees like dark phantoms. They shuffled, however, pained as old men. Many were hunched over, and dragged parts of themselves behind like baggage. There was a clinking sound that accompanied them, almost like...

"Chains," she whispered, and the Nameless One hissed malevolently, making Naomi jump.

"_Yessss, chains. They...are mine. My souls to do with as I will. But why...worry yourself with them? You are, after all, about to expand their numbers...are you not?_"

The Dagger wilted slightly, and the void seemed to lean towards her expectantly. She straightened. She must not show weakness. Her sister, her husband and her son were counting on her.

"I – we – propose a trade, yes. A-are you willing to negotiate?"

"_I am listening_."

Naomi stepped forward. "Good. I want—"

"_For me to slip past the Cailleach, Gatekeeper of the Veil, and...bring back the souls of the two unfortunates here from the Vault_," the Nameless One interrupted, calmly bored. "_In exchange, I get these_." An arm stretched from the black nothingness that was the void and indicated at the surrounding soul gems. "_If I refuse, you will forever trap me in this warm, life-filled world of joy and love. The terms are ever static, but...tantalizingly droll._"

"Their bodies must be whole again as well."

"_Of course, of course. We mustn't forget _that." Again the daemon snickered.

Keeping her face deadpan and her composure strong, Daphne studied the Nameless One. Its origins were unknown, but many supposed it to be a spawn of Satan. But whether the Devil existed or not, the assumptions could not be far off. The void was evil, thoroughly and utterly. It was believed that only the Cailleach could fend it off, keep it from engulfing the Vault of Souls she defended across the Veil. No mortal could touch it, though attempts have been made. The daemon was there, but then, not there. It was a tyrant of spirits, a devourer of souls. Necromancers like her sister revered it, not Daphne. It disgusted her.

But it was her only hope.

"Can you do it?" she asked boldly, as the Nameless One blurred and became a mass of shadow.

"_I can. The question is...can you_?"

Daphne paused, and the void continued, "_There are over one hundred souls trapped in these ąnima gēmmą; are you willing to condemn them all...for the sake of two_?"

The Dagger's hesitation whipped Naomi's head around, a crease of confused outrage spoiling her otherwise beguiling features. "Sister?"

"I...I..."

"Daphne!"

"_Someone...approaches_..." The daemon took the form of a dog, nose pointing at something hidden in the trees from whence the sorcerer sisters had emerged. "_Someone comes to stop you..._"

"Get rid of them, sister," Naomi ordered, leaving no room for protest. "We have sacrificed too much to be stopped now. Go!"

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

Merlin slipped ahead of the others, crouched low as he hastened towards the ever throbbing pulse of necromancy. Never before had he detected magic that was this boisterous with power, giving its location away so readily. Surely, a great disadvantage on their part.

"Don't get too far ahead, now, Merlin. You'll get lost—"

"Gwaine, shut it!"

The warlock ignored the lot following several paces back and slipped behind the cover of an ancient, greyed tree. He'd seen movement ahead. His heart kicked into a gallop, adrenalin seeping into his limbs as he peeked around the gnarled trunk. There, he saw it again! It was dark, hunched like an old woman, and seemed to be dragging itself through the grove as though lugging a laborious burden. He blinked, and it vanished. Could it be a Wanderer?

Merlin swallowed as he edged further around the trunk of his hiding place, trying to find the form again. Then he stifled a scream and jumped a league as hands grabbed his neck from behind.

"Ha! Got you!"

"Shh!" Arthur spat, giving Gwaine a shove as the knight released Merlin, who reddened in his chagrin. "You're gonna give us away, idiot!"

"Well, it's not like we're delicately stepping through fields of flowers right now," Gwaine protested, his voice low. "All this water might as well make us a blooming marching band!"

"There's land ahead," Merlin growled, burying his embarrassment with scorn. "We could approach quietly now." He scanned the trees once more for the shadowed figure, but saw nothing.

"Silence is overrated."

"So is gambling."

"Not on your life!"

"Shut up!" Arthur snapped again.

Gwaine harrumphed and continued on, oblivious to the grimaces given by Arthur as he sloshed loudly and clumsily through the pools of water.

"If we're lucky, our quarry would have been deafened by a banshee already," the king grumbled, making Merlin grin despite himself. The servant grimaced afterwards; it seemed so long since he'd last cracked an amused smile.

What surprised him more was when Arthur smiled _back_.

It was a relief to be stepping on dry land again, or dry-ish. The mossy earth still caved several inches under their boots, but at least they weren't fighting scummy water up to their shins. They still had to avoid tripping on the twisting roots that coiled about each other like great nests of serpents.

He heard a strange clinking sound before movement once more captured Merlin's eye, and he patted Arthur's shoulder before pointing it out. The king signalled halt and crouched low beside the warlock, behind the cover of a wide tree. They both peeked around either side of the trunk, saw the figure, and came together again, backs to the mossy bark.

_Black spirits_, Merlin mouthed, and Arthur nodded, slightly puzzled. Black spirits that sounded like they were dragging chains.

The king glanced over at Bain, also hidden behind a tree, but the bard simply shrugged. He had no idea of the nature of the shadows either.

The next time they looked, it was gone, the clinking chains with it.

Arthur signed approach silently, and then took the lead, ever towards the continuous throbbing of necromancy felt by all. The light that had previously led them was hidden by the thick trees.

Merlin covered the king's flank, eyes never ceasing in their roaming of the grove. He had a strange feeling that the shadows could do no harm, at least physically. What if they could inform the necromancer of their coming?

Behind him, Leon stepped on a twig, but the wood was so soggy, the preceding snap was mostly muffled. It still made the warlock flinch.

Finally, Arthur stepped onto the sparingly cobbled path that they had lost in the water five minutes passed. Merlin checked behind them for shadow spirits, and when he faced forward again, he saw the glinting silver of a dagger, turning end over end, whirring straight for Arthur.

With a soundless cry, the warlock bound forward and tried to drag his king from the path of the deadly blade, as he had done many years ago on that fateful day when he had become Arthur's manservant. But this time, his magic did nothing to hasten him; he was too slow.

A gasp could not be stifled as the dagger hit the king's left shoulder, and he staggered before tripping and falling onto his back. Merlin lost his balance and nearly crashed down on top of him, but he miraculously managed to let the king go and keep his feet in time. His shock and fury were slightly dampened by the fact that the dagger had not pierced Arthur's mail.

Head whipping around to find the source of the blade, his eyes widened and he jumped as a second spun straight for him!

His jump saved him. Instead of hitting squarely between the eyes, the dagger zipped past his ear, nicking flesh and drawing blood. With a small cry, he grasped his ear, then he grunted as something, or someone, dove at him and tackled him to the ground.

"Get down!" Leon roared, dragging Bain to earth by the shoulders. Elyan followed suit.

Gwaine released Merlin's middle and rolled onto his front. There, he remained low on his hands and knees, poised like a readied lion and searching for the assaulter.

"Is it Vraal?" asked Merlin in a hushed tone, struggling to keep his voice from trembling. He loathed to encounter the vampyre again.

"No," the knight replied, equally soft. "Our quarry is named Daphne the _Dagger_. I think we've found her."

"Or she's found us."

A barely suppressed grunt of pain sounded behind Merlin, and the servant started in remembrance. "Arthur!"

The king was on his back, gritting his teeth as he massaged his shoulder.

"Just a bruise," he said, trying to smile nonchalantly. "A flesh wound." He cringed in pain.

"Aren't all wounds 'flesh' wounds?" asked Gwaine. "I mean, if you think about it—"

"Not now, Gwaine!" Merlin and Arthur snapped in unison.

"Sire, what do we do?" Elyan hissed, somewhere from the cover of the trees. He looked ready for anything.

Bain's raven, lost for several hours, chose that time to return. Cawing wildly, she descended from above and made to land on Merlin's back as he lay on the ground. With a soft whirring sound, a dagger spun out of the darkness. Less than a heartbeat later, after a final, astonished squawk, the bird was dead and pinned to a tree, Daphne's dagger sticking out of her chest.

Merlin cursed, and therefore didn't hear the choked gurgle that squeaked from Bain. The servant sat up briefly before throwing himself back down.

"I saw her!" he said excitedly.

"Where?" Gwaine craned his neck to see.

"Near that thick tree, there." Merlin pointed, then noticed Bain stand and draw his bow. "Get down!"

The buzz of a fourth dagger and the twang of a released bow rang out in a deadly duet. Bain dodged back behind a tree, the spinning blade just missing him, as the thud of an arrow hitting wood sounded down the way. No screams.

"Fool!" Arthur gasped out, trying not to move his arm. Merlin crawled closer on his belly towards him and inspected the wound. He withheld a sigh of relief, seeing that it was indeed nothing much to worry about: the layer of chain mail the king had so thoughtfully retained had saved him from the worst of it, for the thrown blade did not pierce it. A few links were damaged, but Arthur was fortunate in that he would merely have a large bruise and a bit of split skin to worry about, nothing serious.

"Fortune favours the brave," the king grunted with mock seriousness as Merlin's hand sought the offending dagger, lying a few feet to his right. He grasped the hilt and almost threw it away in revulsion, but he thought twice and kept it. He may need it, sooner rather than later.

Gwaine suddenly cursed and lifted his knapsack. A second later, another knife thudded into the material.

"She's moved! Find cover!" The knight half stood and grabbed Merlin's arm, as he was closest. The servant, in turn, helped Arthur stand. Merlin turned to catch sight of Daphne as they ran for the shelter of the trees, only to yelp as a sliver of fire opened on his upper arm. He clutched the bleeding wound, not looking around to see where the latest dagger landed, and dodged behind a trunk. Then, all was still.

Arthur started to hand-signal Elyan, ten paces away, and the knight signed back frantically. Not that he knew what the hand gestures meant, Merlin watched and tried to read the tone that they were being delivered in. Elyan seemed disturbed, Arthur, immovable in an unvoiced decision. Merlin flinched as Gwaine poked him.

"Lots of close calls, there, mate," he said, grinning and indicating with a casual flick of his finger.

Merlin looked down at the cut on his arm, a dark stain blossoming around the sliced cloak. His jaw and neck tickled with the rivulets of blood dripping from his ear. When he felt that injury, it didn't seem serious.

"Damn, you bleed a lot."

"Gwaine, you're coming with me," Arthur hissed suddenly, as though the conversation he was having with Elyan spontaneously became verbal. "We're going to flank her. There's just her, so Merlin, you're going to draw fire."

"Of course I am."

"Can you throw a dagger—?"

"Anyone can throw a dagger."

"_Effectively_?"

"No."

"Then give it to Gwaine."

"What am I supposed to use then?" Merlin demanded, reminding himself to keep his level down. He still gave the blade to the knight, hilt first.

"I don't know, find a _rock_ or something."

Typical. A disgruntled but submissive frown sullied Merlin's features, yet he listened avidly as Arthur instructed him on what to do.

Gwaine pulled out the dagger that had gotten stuck in his knapsack and tested its balance.

"These are prime weapons," he said softly, now inspecting the other one from Merlin.

Across the way, Elyan was instructing Bain. Then the knight and his king signalled silently for a few more moments while Merlin peeked around the tree to catch sight of Daphne. All he saw were two more of the black spirits wandering aimlessly through the grove. The deepening sky made it harder for them to be seen.

"I can't find Daphne," he whispered, then cried out as someone grabbed his injured arm and yanked him to the ground. With twin whistles and thuds, yet two more daggers were stuck, quivering lightly, in the tree trunk where he'd been standing.

Daphne had outflanked _them_.

* * *

**0_0**

******Oooooh, can't wait for season 5! It's gonna be intense! CX**


	20. Honeyed Words

~20~ Honeyed Words

Merlin shook free of Arthur's grasp, which was what had pulled him earthwards, and tried to catch sight of the slippery Dagger.

"She can't hide her tracks but she can certainly move like a cat," Gwaine grumbled.

"I have you pinned. There's nowhere to go but back!" came a cry, its source indubitably Daphne. "If you surrender, I'll let you go unscathed!"

"That's it! We'll surrender!" Arthur blurted, snapping his fingers. His gloves muffled the sound, dampening the impact of his revelation. The other two stared at him strangely. "If we pretend to give up and let her take us prisoner, we will be able to get close enough to—"

"I can hear you, you know," said Daphne, stepping silently out from behind a tree not ten strides away.

Without thinking, Gwaine threw one of the Dagger's own blades at her, but then the woman simply lifted a hand and the knife halted in midair, a mere foot from her palm.

"Good throw," she said, and flicked a finger. The dagger promptly spun around and shot back towards Gwaine, who stiffened like a bow string as the blade stopped an inch away from between his eyes.

"Great. A sorceress as well," Gwaine grumbled, seemingly unfazed by the encounter and the blade floating just before his face. He didn't flinch as the point nicked his eyebrow tauntingly, drawing blood.

Daphne was impassive, though her nostrils flared. "I knew I shouldn't have trusted Vraal," she said chidingly, mostly towards herself. "'A master who boasts is a master prone to failure,' I once told him. The fool."

Merlin's mind was whirling like a tempest in its attempt to figure a way out of this tangle, without becoming a tangle itself, when Daphne moved her outstretched arm. The floating dagger followed her hand, leaving Gwaine and passing over the warlock, teasingly slow; it then moved on to Arthur, who simply glared, jaw muscles twitching. He was also looking for a solution, with minimal success.

"Silly men," Daphne snapped suddenly, still moving the dagger from companion to companion. "Meddling in that which should be left alone!"

"Smart, coming from a necromancer!" Merlin spat, surprising even himself. He was baffled to see Daphne blink, and almost appear...hurt.

Then the Dagger shook herself. "I'm giving you one last chance to go back. My sister would not be so lenient as I—"

"There are _two_ of you?" asked Gwaine, incredulous. He rolled his eyes. "Double trouble."

"We can't leave," said Arthur, standing, ignoring the warning of the dagger and even taking a step closer to Daphne. "You have taken something from me, something that cannot be replaced." His jaw twitched again as his voice softened like a kitten's belly. The Dagger watched him intently, calculating. "We know what you are doing," he continued. "You have lost someone very dear to you, and you want to see them again...but at too high a cost."

Merlin wasn't the only one seeing the breaches in Daphne's defences. Arthur grabbed hold of the flaws and gently began to pry.

"Think about what you are _doing_, Daphne," Arthur said, a light coat of pleading on his tone. "Think of all the people you're hurting. Your loved ones – they may have died young, yes, and unfairly, but that is to the fault of nobody's but fate's. You may think it right to offer the souls of strangers in exchange for your family, but you have to realize...you are tearing apart _my_ family, Daphne."

Merlin blinked. Were those tears in the woman's eyes? And did Arthur's voice just crack?

The king pointed to something in the unseen distance, his words oozing with unshed sorrow and compassion. "My wife is with child. Then you took her soul, and now I don't know if it's _alive_ anymore." His arm slumped and he shook his head slowly. "Your love was lost to you. Please don't take away mine."

Silence. Daphne might as well have been a statue but for the trembling of her outstretched arm. The floating dagger that had been pointed directly at Arthur's heart spun slowly on an invisible axis, rising up past his throat to hang suspended inches from his face. The king didn't so much as look at it, though Merlin was already planning to cut Daphne's magic off should she try anything—

In a brief gleam of silvery metal, the dagger dabbed Arthur's cheek, and then withdrew, a glistening tear wobbling on its tip like a dewdrop.

Daphne dropped her arm. The blade fell with it, landing with a soft _thump_ on the mossy ground at Arthur's feet. Then, it was to the surprise of all when the sorceress suddenly erupted, crying and howling as she rushed forwards, into Arthur's arms like a child seeking protection. The king was stiff with shock at first, but as Daphne sobbed into his neck and squeezed his chest like she would a teddy bear, he awkwardly wrapped his arms around her and held her. He brushed her dark hair and shushed her while she blubbered incoherent words into the collar of his cloak, shoulders shuddering and chest wracking with choking sobs.

Merlin glanced at Gwaine, who was already staring, aghast, at him. The warlock realized how much his expression mirrored the knight's, and immediately clicked his jaw shut.

_How...But...It's_ never _this easy to defeat an enemy! _he thought incredulously. _A few honeyed words and_—bam! _Show's over...Or is it?_

The little hairs on the back of his neck had a length contest as they stood on end. Perking like a startled rabbit, Merlin scanned their surroundings with a cautious eye, not turning his head. If someone was watching, he didn't want them to know that he was watching back.

"Something's not right," hissed Gwaine, and Merlin nodded slowly in agreement. He turned as he heard Elyan, Leon, and Bain approaching from behind. The knights and bard looked confused at the embracing couple, but the servant waved down any questions, a warning in his eye.

Daphne continued to drench Arthur with her tears as she choked out what may have been apologies, but for the lack of enunciation, she might as well have been reciting a recipe for Dutch cookies. Merlin shuffled uncomfortably, and suddenly, as though through telepathy, he knew that it was time for him to pry Daphne away from the king. Somehow.

He stepped up to the pair, lifting his hands, lowering them, and then lifting them again, totally at a loss. Finally, he placed his left palm on the sorceress's shoulder and gently nudged her, pulling her away from the king's embrace. "Um...there, there," he said. He grunted as Daphne abruptly released Arthur and threw herself into Merlin's arms, crying afresh. "Oh, boy."

Arthur's shoulder was drenched. He did not look regretful having the Dagger change her human handkerchief. Merlin, however, was swiftly learning how strong a weeping woman's arms could be.

"It's, um...It's all right," he said softly, clumsily, patting her hair like Arthur did. Whatever Daphne said in return was lost in the storm of tears. The servant glowered at Gwaine, who was grinning widely and waving his fingers daintily, as though tickling cherry blossoms.

Merlin was on the verge of gesturing very rudely with his hand when he noticed the black shadow form standing silently behind the knight. Then a second shadow materialized beside the first, just as vague and opaque as the first. They seemed to swallow whatever light was thrown at them.

Arthur must have seen the warlock's eyes widen as yet three more figures appeared from between the trees, their otherwise stealthy movements spoiled by the clinking of chains, for he turned around, lifting _Excalibur_ as he did so. He tensed in alarm, noticing how many there were, while the knights all followed suit. The slithers of unsheathing swords finally slapped Daphne out of her sobbing state and she released Merlin to look around. She continued to clutch at the front of his cloak, however, and seemed ready to cling to him when need be.

"What are these things?" Leon demanded of the sorceress, shoulder to shoulder with Bain and Arthur. They were now entirely surrounded by the ghastly shapes, which regarded them as silently as statues but for the occasional rattling chain link.

"Lost spirits," Daphne stammered, sorrow rattling her words. "They are what remains of those unfortunate enough to continue existing once in the Nameless One's clutches."

Merlin felt a tremor of horror. "'_When your petty little king kills Daphne, I will be free to do with you however I wish. I will know when Daphne is dead; be sure of that, warlock. I will know. Beware the Nameless One_.'" Those were Vraal's words. Beware the Nameless One.

The vampyre wanted to kill Merlin himself. His warning was not to be taken lightly.

"You know it?"

The servant flinched, realizing that Daphne's question was aimed at him. He forced the anxious look of malaise from his features. "Uh, no. Who is that?"

With a shudder, the sorceress said, "Not _who_. _What_." She seemed wanting to cuddle up closer to him for protection, but in a bout of courage on her part, she released him and stood aside, drawing twin daggers from her belt as she did so. "The Nameless One is a daemon, a soul devourer. It might as well be a god to necromancers, its powers vast and terrible. These are the poor unfortunates who are bound to its will."

"Can they harm us?"

"...I don't know. I don't think they'd _want_ to, either way, else they would have done something to us already, or tried to do something."

Arthur's head was turning to look at each shadow spirit in turn. "But what _are_ they? Ghosts?"

"I told you," Daphne snapped, more impatient as tension ballooned. "The remains of the Nameless One's victims. They are the ones that the daemon clung to, the ones it bound in chains. Its other victims...they have simply ceased to exist. _They_ are the lucky ones, if this bunch is anything to compare to."

"Can we free them?" asked Merlin, ever the saint, not that the others weren't willing to help the unfortunate souls.

Daphne shook her head. "I'm not sure. My sister is the necromancer, not me. But even she may not know. The Nameless One is so vaguely understood, which makes it all the more dangerous."

"Then let's go find your sister," Arthur growled.

"That isn't necessary," came a new voice.


	21. A Family Affair

~21~ A Family Affair

"That isn't necessary."

The party jumped and turned simultaneously towards the verbal newcomer, who stepped around the black, lost spirits of the Nameless One as though they were not but shrouds of mist.

"Naomi," Daphne gasped, suddenly looking very guilty. The necromancer sneered.

"I knew I couldn't trust you," she said, lip curling in contempt. She shifted her staff, a skull carved into the wood on its tip, from one hand to the other. "You are weak, puny-minded, _cowardly_. Always one to fall into the strong embraces of men for comfort, not to mention _satisfaction_."

Merlin blushed, though he wasn't entirely sure why, but he tried to put on a brave face as he said, "What you have done is unnatural and immoral. We will not let you continue, necromancer."

"Bold words from such a mundane tongue," Naomi praised mockingly, turning her empty eyes on the warlock. Merlin tried not to wince: the sorceress, who may have once been beautiful, looked like a corpse, clammy, pallid. "Bold, and pointless." Slowly, as though savouring the moment, Naomi put forward her staff and tapped the soft ground with the butt of it. The eyes of the wooden skull that crowned it flashed like twin emeralds, and suddenly, Merlin found himself unable to speak. He choked, his tongue plastered to the roof of his mouth. All he could do was glare reproachfully as Naomi relaxed, smiling soothingly.

"There. All better." She spoke as though whispering calming words to a child. Arthur frowned and looked to his servant, puzzled at Merlin's strange yet infuriated expression.

"What did you do?" the king demanded, raising _Excalibur_ high. He grunted as a black chain lashed out of the shadows and lassoed the sword, and before Arthur could tug it away, the blade was yanked from his grasp. He forced back a cry of outrage as _Excalibur_ vanished into one of the voids that was a black spirit without a trace.

The others reacted accordingly. Surrounding their now defenceless king, the knights and Bain faced the lost souls aggressively, now knowing that the figures had a level of solidity, and an even deeper level of transcendence and obscurity. Even as the companions moved into position, however, the black spectres were doing the same.

Merlin noticed something that none of the others seemed to – the spirits moved in sync with Naomi's skull-headed staff.

_She's controlling them!_ he exclaimed inwardly, anxiety mixed with the self-satisfaction that he had been so observant. He glanced at Daphne, but the sorceress was already striding purposefully towards her sister.

"Naomi, listen to me," she pleaded, and stopped abruptly as the necromancer turned on her, staff raised.

"I'll have no more words from you, _sister_," she spat. She flicked her staff again, and a loop of ebony chain links flashed out of the shadows and fell around Daphne's body, pinning her arms to her sides. Before she could incant anything in retaliation, Naomi silenced her as she did Merlin: by gluing her tongue to the roof of her mouth.

Outraged, Daphne struggled silently against the ghostly chains which bound her to a black spirit, to no avail. Merlin made to storm forwards, but by a warning glare from Naomi, he stayed his ground, his heart hammering against his ribs. He forced himself not to look at the two daggers Daphne had dropped when the chains fell around her, all the while struggling to free his own tongue. The necromancer's powers were unusual, and had an air, a taste, of a magic he had only experienced a few times before. Most prominently was with the two Sidhe, Sophia and Aulfric, who had staffs to channel their magic.

That posed Merlin with an advantage. If he could get that staff from Naomi, then she would be left powerless.

The necromancer must have seen the calculating look in Merlin's eyes. She smiled again, like a knavish vixen, and the warlock had but a moment to spare to dodge to the side before a new loop of chains flashed overhead. Before the rattling links had even touched the ground, however, Merlin was rushing at her, aiming for the cursed staff.

"Merlin, _stop!_" Arthur cried, but too late. By Naomi's order, a black spirit drifted in front of the necromancer, a ghostly shield. The servant tried to halt even as he passed through the fathomless void.

His body emerged out the other side. His soul did not.

The five companions watched dumbly as Merlin stopped feet away from Naomi, fell to his knees, and then slumped forward, lifeless. The shadow spirit, one of many belonging to the daemon called the Nameless One, seemed to shiver before floating back towards its circle of brethren. Daphne gave a slight whimper as the servant fell, her tongue still stuck to the roof of her mouth and arms pinned to her sides by a spirit's chains.

"What have you done to him?" Arthur demanded, shoving through the protective ring of knights. He had been afraid that Merlin would share the same fate as _Excalibur_ when he touched the black spirit – vanishing like it had never been – but, somehow, seeing the servant lying there, prone as though dead, seemed worse. To the king's aggravation, Naomi merely shrugged.

"I did nothing. Your friend risked himself by daring to attack me. I am not the source of your distress."

Arthur glowered, fire flaring in his eyes. Naomi met his challenge with a gaze of ice. For a while, a contest of a tempestuous inferno against a howling blizzard raged between them, neither giving ground, or seizing any.

After nearly a minute, Arthur couldn't help but wilt. As though suddenly caught in the throes of winter, the air became still and frozen, much like Naomi's eyes. He shivered, alarmed to see his breath pluming from his lips.

"_I tire...of waiting_," a sourceless voice slithered through everyone's ears. "_Are you coming back or not?_"

Even Naomi looked startled, but she quickly composed herself and grinned wolfishly at her prisoners.

"Come," she said, "we mustn't keep the master waiting any longer."

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

_At first, Merlin was at a total loss as to where he was. Everything was black, as though in a windowless, unlit room, but his eyes could not adjust. What was even more worrisome, however, was that it felt like he was suspended in water._

_The sensation threw him into a panic and he thrashed wildly, holding his breath, as he tried to find a surface that didn't exist. It wasn't until after several minutes that he realized the latter,_ and _that he hadn't passed out from lack of air._

_This puzzled him. How could he not need air? What was this place? He was suspended blindly in a water-like environment, yet he wasn't wet, or even cold. In fact, he didn't feel _any_ temperature, nor did he hear anything, or smell._

_As suspicions edged forward, Merlin felt panic rising again. He tried to feel for his own heartbeat, but there was no hand to attempt it, let alone a chest to feel. When he had thrashed against what he thought was water, it was merely_ memories _of moving in such ways. He had no body; it was all in his mind._

Dead...I'm_ dead!_

_He tried to speak, but there was no jaw to open nor throat or tongue to sculpt the words. He attempted to turn in a circle, but his memory fooled him into thinking that he was going somewhere when he really wasn't. He couldn't even cry_.

Oh, God! What have I done?

_He'd prayed like that only once before, when caught in the clutches of Vraal the vampyre. It was where he'd rather be at the moment, because at least he would have a body._

I've done nothing to deserve this! Please, Lord, forgive me!

___Hell didn't need to be a world of everlasting fire and torment – a mind will quickly be consumed by madness when it can only think back and regret, knowing that an eternity of nothingness was all that awaited it._

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

The companions had no weapons against the chains of the black spirits, and so they were all quickly subdued, disarmed, and separated. Merlin's limp body was left behind, but Arthur said nothing. He did not want to give Naomi any more leverage over him than she already had.

Even so, he cast a furtive glance over his shoulder as he and his knights were led away to finally see the Nameless One face to face.

"_My my my, look at all the tasty little morsels_."

The chilling voice, neither male nor female, teased the companions' ears sadistically as they were led to the circle of large, round-topped stone monoliths, inside of which was a smaller ring of pedestals, each supporting a small, coloured rock that pulsed with light. They had been what led the party to the grove of trees in the first place.

In the middle of the shrine was a stone table, upon which lay a pair of flaccid, grey-skinned lumps. It took several moments of dedicated staring for the companions to realize that they were looking at two corpses, one an adult, the other a child.

Arthur studied the glowing, gem-like stones on the pedestals intensely, wondering at their purpose. Then he saw the red one, and understanding hit him like a charging stallion.

He opened his mouth, but words choked themselves into submission as a shapeless void materialized in the ring-shaped space between the monoliths and the stones, and the demonic voice said, "_Pretty...aren't they?_" The Nameless One laughed at Arthur's flinch, and the king angrily ordered himself to stand strong.

"This is madness."

"This is art," Naomi reprimanded, shoving past Arthur and entering the rings. She moved to the other side of the table from the travellers, and then pointed at the king with her staff. "You. You are the one in charge. Come here."

"Arthur, don't," Elyan blurted, microseconds before everyone else.

"Silence!" the necromancer barked. She snapped her fingers. "Daphne, get over here, now."

Simultaneously, both sets of chains holding Arthur and Daphne melted away, and the black spirits that held them drifted back into the trees.

The king thought he couldn't get colder as Naomi's magic compelled his feet to walk into the ring of monoliths and then of soul gems. As it was, his teeth nearly chattered out of his jaw, and icy claws tore at his lungs. He could see the gooseflesh on Daphne's bare arms.

As he walked through the circles into the centre, it was like he had rapidly hiked to a higher altitude. His ears popped and he felt slightly lightheaded until he stood near the table, opposite Naomi. As soon as she released him from her magic, Arthur made ready to move.

"Ah ah ah," she said, shifting her staff. Arthur expected himself to be immobilized again, but nothing happened. "You were under my protection when you passed through the wards. You cannot leave without my permission...Well, you _could_, but you wouldn't even exist to regret it."

Fighting back the stubborn urges to launch into action, Arthur remained still, wracking his brain for a solution to the mess. At his right, the ruby soul gem that held the very essence of his wife, his lover, sat glowing on its pedestal. He wanted to rush over and snatch it up, but at the same time, he was afraid of what might happen if he did.

Before Arthur could tear his gaze away from the small and otherwise insignificant red rock, the Nameless One, in the shape of a big-horned sheep, stepped into view.

"_You cannot ignore me forever...Arthur Pendragon_." The daemon spoke with the joy and daintiness of claws on stone, sounding almost mad.

It was strange; Arthur knew that it was coming from the animal-shaped void before him, but it wasn't moving in anyway. The jaw didn't open to emit the sounds. It was as though the voice were detached from the body – it seemed like it was everywhere at once.

"_So brave, so loyal, but you think him...foolish_."

Arthur blinked. He hastily glanced at the other two, but they were staring off into something only they could see. The Nameless One must be speaking to them individually.

_Who?_ he asked mentally, glaring at the sheep even as it watched him impassively. At first, the king thought it had been talking about he himself, but...

"_Your servant. He's with me, you know. I can feel...him fighting that which he cannot fight...It's almost amusing._"

"Let him go!" Arthur barked aloud, startling everyone.

With a demoniac snort, the daemon shifted into a fox, which sat on its tufted tail soundlessly. Arthur glowered at it, unnerved by the fact that it looked less like a black silhouette and more like a space of..._nothingness_. Empty nothingness. The glowing soul gems could not illuminate the shadow that was the Nameless One.

"_You want him? Come...get him_."

Arthur didn't move. He wasn't going to fall for any tricks. _Merlin has done nothing to you_, he growled inwardly. Naomi's _the one you want. Why don't you take_ her _soul?_

"_Would if I could, little king._" The next form the void took was a shapeless mass of darkness, which swelled until it rose taller than Arthur and stretched further than his outstretched arms were wide. "_Would if I could, you have no idea_."

"Arthur!"

The king jumped. Turning, he saw Leon calling to him, but sounded as though it were through several layers of glass window. _The wards_, Arthur reminded himself.

"_Yesss, the wards_," the Nameless One grumbled. "_The cursed wards...Remove them, Pendragon, and I will free your friend_."

"Oh yes, because I trust you _completely_," Arthur snapped, words dripping sarcasm.

The formless mass seemed to shrug. "_Worth a shot._"

"Enough of this!" Naomi suddenly shrieked. She whirled on the Nameless One. "We had a deal, daemon!"

The void took the shape of an elk and stepped lightly around the outer ring, between the monoliths and the soul gems, until it stood before the necromancer.

"_We did, mistress_," it hissed, sounding scornful, resentful of its treatment.

"Naomi, _listen_ to me," Daphne whimpered. The hex silencing her had been lifted. "What we are doing, what _you_ are doing...it isn't right. We can't do this."

"Baby sister," the other sorceress sneered callously. "Ever the morally aware. Ever the _coward_." She indicated to the daemon with her staff. "This is what it's all about, Daphne. It's what it's _always_ been about, ever since Kale and Adam died."

"But...I don't understand, Naomi," said Daphne, close to tears. She strode around the table holding the two corpses until she stood but feet from her sister. "Why are you so desperate to bring back my husband and child?"

"Because they should have been _my_ husband and child!" the necromancer roared, her staff flashing sparks. Daphne quailed, her lower lip trembling.

"But...but..."

Naomi was seething, spittle flying from her lips as she screeched, "You slut, you whore! Kale was mine! He never loved you – he always loved _me_, but you stole him from me! You selfish bitch!"

"Naomi!" Daphne cried, tears overwhelming her and running down her filthy face. The other sorceress slapped her, sending her back a pace. She held her cheek, shameful as a naughty schoolgirl.

Arthur was speechless. Daphne's first impression made her seem so strong and independent, but it was like Naomi's presence smothered her, drowned her potential in the necromancer's own shroud of superiority. A roil of emotions wrestled within him. Daphne was his enemy; she had ordered the theft of Gwen's soul, and she was the one who could have been the cause of Merlin's death two weeks ago. But then she had turned on the tides of empathy and fallen into Arthur's arms, begging forgiveness. Now, she fighting what her sister was avid to finish, what she had previously desired so desperately.

His blue-grey eyes flickering from one sorceress to the other, Arthur suddenly focused on the two wrinkled, decaying corpses lying on the stone table before him. One of them, the child, was tiny, couldn't have been older than six or seven before being killed. The king found himself unable to blame Daphne for her atrocity against his own lover.

_What is a stranger compared to a son?_ he thought to himself. Then he abruptly wondered why Naomi had ordered him into the circles.

"_Because she wants...you to watch_," a voice slithered in his ear, making Arthur jump. The Nameless One snorted. "_Cocky little sow, isn't she?_"

Arthur tried to ignore the daemon, but it was like trying to ignore a kid with a wooden spoon and a saucepan running around in an echoing cathedral.

"_Your servant is an admirable fighter_," the Nameless One was saying, preventing Arthur from focusing on the rapidly heating argument between the two sorceress sisters. "_Battles whatever I throw at him. I'll bet he thinks he's in Hell right now_."

"Shut up!"

Both Daphne and Naomi glanced, startled, at him even as he slowly lowered his hands from his ears, placed there initially to block out the daemon. Then Arthur met Naomi's gaze, and tensed. She would have noticed his attention flicking at her skull-crowned staff, for she raised it just he lunged to take it.

The king recoiled as his world flashed white, a intense ringing sound shrieking in his ears, and then faded to silent darkness.

* * *

**So, the truth has been revealed!** **Cat's outta the bag! The whistle's been blown! Someone spilled the beans and now they're all over the place! Look at this mess. Sheesh.**


	22. Limbo

******Weeeeee! S5 starts on the 29th! Cx**

**I think.**

* * *

~22~ Limbo

_Merlin struggled not to think of the inevitable. He tried to avoid the thought of never moving again, never sleeping, never eating, never feeling the welcoming embrace of his mother or the disciplining cuffs delivered by Arthur on a regular basis. He tried to smother the regrets and despair by cloaking himself in his achievements._

_It was harder than it sounded._

_Every time he recalled saving Gwen from execution during the first few months of his service to the king, or Prince at the time, the blank plane of existence in which he now resided in forced him to remember that he could not help her now, her or her unborn child. Even when he was reassured by the countless times that he had saved Arthur's life, he was cruelly reminded that now the king was trapped with those who wished him harm, without even a sword to defend himself with. It was torture in the most intimate of ways._

_Merlin thought that he was gritting his teeth and balling his fists, but as there were no hands or mouth to oblige him, he knew that it was all in his mind—not even in his head. He didn't have a head. Only a mind, a mind that never stopped working, never stopped rolling towards the unavoidable flails of madness._

_Though he didn't realize it at first, he was already spiralling into insanity's clutches. It was all part of an endless circle: regrets and sorrows, with attempts to dampen them using positive recollections; then spurts of anticipation that quickly twisted into despair and hopelessness; for a while, there was even indifference or disinterest; mostly though, Merlin was angry._

Thank you for the reward given to me for obeying your every whim, universe_, he snarled. _I did my best and was almost entirely successful in fulfilling my destiny, yet I am stuck here, now, to wallow in self-pity and remorse for all eternity. My undying gratitude, _Fate_.

_The fury reached jagged peaks where Merlin wanted to hurt himself, but he couldn't, not without a body or anything to hurt himself with. He couldn't even use magic._

_What seemed like years passed as the warlock cycled through the course of emotions again and again, seeming to forget that he was looking out the same four windows at different points of the day. But for time, nothing changed._

_It was just after the sudden, stomach-plunging drop from fury to melancholy that he felt...a presence. It startled him, and if he could move, he would have, away from the intruder. It stayed with him, however, and he was only slightly reassured by the fact that it didn't feel malicious in any way. At least, not at first._

_Odd as it was, Merlin was quickly able to decipher what he was feeling. It was another mind, but one that was insane. As though on cue, the presence threw itself at him, engulfing his mind with its own and swallowing it whole._

_Merlin panicked, battling the mad newcomer like a cornered animal. Whenever he thought that he was gaining ground, the walls smoothed over and he was back on square one, where his assailant was struggling to snuff him from existence, or else mould him into its own. _

No, no! Not this!_ he bellowed desperately, mentally kicking the other mind away. He tried to retreat, but could not, so he abruptly switched tactics, and went on the offensive._

_The assaulter seemed to hesitate at the sudden chance of reaction, and Merlin pressed his attack. Probing with sharp jabs, the warlock snatched the upper hand, so to speak, slashing the ties that the other mind had bound him with. He couldn't use magic, at least not physically, but whatever it was that he has become allowed him to fight as though he _could_ use it. Soon enough, the insane presence fled, retreating back into its lonesome abyss that was that black world._

_Merlin was not put at rest. He was on constant alert for any more hungry offenders, but he was glad for the distraction – he'd rather fear for an attack than focus on the eternal cycles of emotional turmoil._

_Such mental adrenaline was what brought the servant out of the rut. Now that he knew that he could 'move' to defend himself, he stretched out as far as he could with his mind, searching in vain for any flaw in the otherwise monotonous, foreboding domain of unknown origins. It was to his utmost surprise, then, as he heard a voice in the darkness. It wasn't a very nice voice._

"Give it up, little hero_," it said maliciously, and then it chuckled. "_You'll find nothing more than what you've already discovered. A circle will never have any corners, no matter how hard you look_."_

Who are you?_ Merlin demanded._

_Another malevolent chuckle. Then silence._

_The warlock cast out his mental probes to no avail. The owner of the voice was either too far or...perhaps _part_ of that god-forsaken plane? Could it have been Hades? Satan? Some other unholy deity?_

_Merlin quickly shut out such nonsense. The voice was nothing. He probably didn't even hear anything._

* * *

_Bored, Merlin tried to amuse himself by somersaulting over and over in the water-like suspension of his prison, as he would in a regular lake that actually got him wet. He would have had more fun mucking out Arthur's stables, and at least the job wouldn't get him dizzy._

Strange, how I can feel dizzy here_, he thought disinterestedly. What was the point of being interested anymore? _It's not like I have a head to feel dizzy with—ouch_._

_The pain was so sharp, so intense and so brief, Merlin thought that he had imagined it. But then it came again, longer this time, and felt like he was being pricked by a sword._

Hey_, he cried out. _Stop it!

"Talking to oneself is a clear sign of madness,_" hissed the voice, returning after so long. _

_Merlin was about to form a biting retort, but he was interrupted by a burning pain that would have been on his back if he had one. He cried out, flinching away from the invisible flames, only to move into another patch._

_The agony made him angry, and the warlock retaliated with stabs of his mind. He missed several times, not that he was sure if he was aiming at anything that was actually there, but at one point, he could have sworn he felt a brief touch of another presence. Could it be the source of the voice?_

_The spurts of pain made it hard to concentrate. The torturer laughed like a maniac as Merlin screamed helplessly in the darkness._

* * *

_It was like he was fighting against an unavoidable dilemma – no matter which way he turned or fought, he was gored by the horns of the bull. His attempts to defend himself were smothered disdainfully, his attacks were bites of a fly. It was different from fighting off that insane mind than the current bombardment, for, though it had come from all around him, he could at least find a source. His newest assailant seemed to have no source; it was everywhere, yet nowhere. And it was relishing it all._

"I love it when they fight_," the voice crowed, stabbing Merlin with the equivalent of a spear and making him scream. "_Creates such music—! Where do you think you're going?_"_

_Without a word, and without warning, Merlin fled. He didn't know he was doing so until his tormentor mentioned it, for all he was trying to do was retreat into himself. Apparently, he was going somewhere. _

_He was encouraged. Moving faster, he shot forward like a freed arrow from a bow as he fled his captor. Still, he could hear the voice somewhere behind him, though he dared not slow to attempt any deterrents. He concentrated solely on escaping._

_Wait, what was that? _

_The feeling was no more than a light feather brushing against his cheek, a page flipping across his fingers, but like a blind man in a river, Merlin latched onto the flaw, the interruption in the monotony, and pried at it. For several alarming moments, it remained as stubborn as a tight-lipped clam, but then he slipped a sliver of himself through the smallest of spaces, and he knew that he was going to rise triumphant._

"No!_"_

_Merlin quickened his escape into an unknown plane even as his tormentor reached for him with pain-inflicting talons. For one heart-stopping moment (though he had no heart), the claws snagged him and he was slowly drawn back, but then something else, something from the other side, pulled him through the rest of the way, the claws losing their desperate grip._

_Merlin was free!_

_...But no. He was still in a blank, undefined domain of nothingness. He wilted in despair. He had done nothing but force his way into the next page of the same book._

"_No, Emrys. You have done more than that."_

_Merlin jumped, and suddenly realized...there was a hardness beneath his feet...and it he felt like he _had_ feet! _Real_ feet, not just a memory of them. And he was no longer feeling the sensation of water._

"_We do not have much time, Emrys. This place is merely a temporary haven from the Nameless One. It will come, and I will not be able to stop it from taking you, not here."_

I know that voice_, the warlock said to himself. Then, aloud, "Who are you?"_

"_Do you not recognize me?" said the Cailleach as she stepped into view. Merlin could actually _see_ her!_

"You!_" Merlin snarled, flaring like a furious bird._

_The haggardly cloaked, hooded figure raised a wrinkled grey hand in peace, her sagging face guarding any emotion jealously. Her pale, sad eyes seemed to penetrate deep into Merlin's essence, leaving him defenceless to her enquiry and her mercy. "You are in great distress, Emrys, I know. But there is no time for quarrel. You must leave this place."_

"_How?" Merlin demanded, withholding the continuing surprise as he felt himself speak with a tongue. "What is this place?"_

"_We are not here, nor there," said the Gatekeeper of the Veil, her deep, age-old voice unnerving Merlin. "This is the stopper between life and death, from body and spirit, on the other side of the Veil. This is Limbo."_

"_Limbo?"_

_The Cailleach lowered her hand slowly, as though it pained her to move quickly. "It is a dark place; no place for the living."_

"_I'm alive?"_

"_In part, yes. But you can still die."_

"_Well, how do I get out of here?"_

"_Wake up."_

"_Wake up?" Merlin frowned. "What do you mean?" The Gatekeeper of the Veil merely stared emptily at him. Knowing that she wasn't going to budge in answering that question, he asked, "What is the Nameless One?"_

"_A daemon," the Cailleach replied, one hand tightening on her staff. "A creature of neither and both worlds. Not many of them remain, but this one is particularly persistent. Its true name has long since been forgotten, even by me."_

"_Is it what had been hurting me?"_

"_Yes. You were in the plane one of its minions; you were fair game."_

"_Fair game. What, was I some kind of sport?" _

"_Sport, prize, toy, slave. You are in our realm, Emrys. I only helped you because I didn't want _it_ to get you. The daemon has already done much damage to my duty. It has desecrated the Vault of Souls – as you mortals have deemed it – more than should be natural for such a being as the Nameless One."_

"_The Vault of Souls. Is that what lies—?"_

"_On the other side of the Gateway, yes, parallel to the spirit realm. The name is mediocre to what truly exists beyond, for that is what I call it: Beyond."_

"_But what _is_ it?"_

"_It is simply...On. It is where you may go, if you wish, Emrys."_

"_You mean, I could go and just...die?"_

_Again, the Cailleach withheld her answer. Merlin figured that it was simply because he should be able to answer the question himself. Then he frowned. "Then where _was_ I? If this is Limbo, then what was the other place? What did you mean when you said the 'plane' of one of the daemon's minions?"_

"_You are inquisitive," said the Cailleach monotonously, blinking slowly. "I mean what I said, and I said what I mean." Merlin scowled. "You must trust me when I say that only the passed should learn about what comes after."_

_The passed? After? "You mean dead people."_

"_You will see Arthur again soon, Emrys, here, if you do not leave. It is dangerous for you to remain here. Already, your soul is becoming one with this realm."_

_Merlin shuddered. She was right: he could see her more clearly than he did a few minutes ago, and there was something else, something still blurred in the background. He squinted at it, and figured that it was some kind of tree. A tree?_

"_What's—?"_

"_Don't look at it!" the Cailleach snapped, the most emotion Merlin had ever heard her express before. "That is the Gateway. If you see it sharply, then all is lost."_

"_A _tree's_ the...How do I get out of here?"_

"_As I said, wake up. Face the Veil, and open your eyes."_

_Merlin turned around, yet faced complete darkness._

"_You must hurry, Emrys. The Nameless One comes. If it catches you, you will have no chance of escape._

"_Be careful not to damage the Veil," the Cailleach continued, "else you shatter the Gateway with it and release the spirits back into Albion." _

_With a shiver, Merlin remembered the last time that had occurred. "What will happen when I 'wake up?' Will I be back in my own body?" He glanced behind him, but the Gatekeeper was gone. The Gateway, however, the tree, was much sharper now._

I don't have much time_, he said to himself, reining in the trepidation. He took a step forward, relishing the feeling, and stretched out an arm he couldn't see. He detected nothing, so he stepped again, and felt something brush his fingertips. It was the finest of cloth, as though made of spider silk, not thread as he had imagined. He almost missed it, but his senses were peaked. The Veil, an apt name._

"_You may want to take that with you, Emrys," sounded the Cailleach's voice one last time, making Merlin's head whip around, only to see a faint golden light in the distance. The Gatekeeper was nowhere in sight. He squinted, and made out that the light source was some kind of illuminated line with a small crossbar._

_What felt like his heart leaped into his throat, and Merlin made towards the glowing object with haste. He moved faster and faster when he realized what it was._

Excalibur!

_The perfect sword seemed to be made for his unseen hand as he grasped the hilt. The golden glow flared briefly at his touch before dimming to a light pulse. He didn't care how it got there; what astonished him, however, was that he could see part of himself, a faint, ghost-like outline of his hand and arm, which sharpened with every moment since he took the sword._

_It made him realize how little he knew of this fateful blade. Before, he thought it merely a tool for defeating immortal enemies and convincing Arthur that he was indeed fit for the throne of Camelot. Now, it seems, it was something else..._

Now I have to wake up_, he thought suddenly, shaking out of his reverie. He stretched out his free hand and felt for the spidery film of the Veil. As it brushed softly against his fingers, he thought, _This...this is a dream. I'm going to open my eyes now...Rise and shine!

_Nothing. He tried again._

Shake a leg!

Up and at 'em!

Let's have you, lazy daisy...!

_Nope. Nothing still. Not to mention that he felt like a complete fool. The only consolation was that those were the very same expressions he'd used to piss Arthur off one morning; it made Merlin smile._

_Arthur. The Cailleach had said that he was in danger._

"Danger, yes. But you don't have time to worry about _him..."_

_Merlin felt burning, constricting vines wrap around his body and drag him from the Veil, unfazed by his frenzied squirming. He squeezed the hilt of _Excalibur_ even as he was hauled away._

"You're going to be too busy worrying about yourself!_" the Nameless One sneered, and shrieked with satanic laughter._

* * *

**I hope this chapter didn't sound too religious. It wasn't supposed to.**

**'K, this is random but I gotta say, My parents helped save a man's life! And they aren't even medics! WHOOP! :D I'm so proud of them :')**


	23. Ambivalence

**Heeey, update's a little sooner than planned :) That's because someone asked for more frequent updates ;)**

* * *

~23~ Ambivalence

Arthur cracked open his eyes, heavy as they were, and found that he was lying on his front in a puddle of slimy water. Groaning, he tried to rise, but it was like a sack of bricks was lying on his shoulders and he fell back down. A sharp ringing in his ears deafened him to all else.

_What the hell just happened?_ he asked himself, sluggishly lifting his head. There was a fight initiating between the two sorceress sisters, Daphne and Naomi, then...

Naomi had done something to him. Knocked him out...but that means...

Bricks or no bricks, Arthur scrambled to his feet as though the ground was suddenly made of burning coals. His hands were bunched and ready to swing, but he need not worry.

He lowered his fists slowly as he took in the scene. His ears slowly stopped ringing and he was able to hear that Daphne was weeping, her face in her hands, shoulders trembling. She was on her knees before the limp form of Naomi, from whose head blood was seeping from a fresh bludgeon wound. The skull-crowned staff of necromancy lay prone nearby. He must have only been unconscious for a minute or two.

Hesitating, Arthur watched, impassive, as Daphne continued to cry soundlessly. Should he help? But to what end? He still didn't trust the sorceress, even if she was the one who eliminated the primary enemy—

"_Primary enemy? Hard_-ly," someone jeered. Arthur stiffened, but did not turn, at the sound of the Nameless One's voice. "_She is but a tool...compared to the true powers of necromancy_."

Arthur shrugged. "So?"

Now it was the daemon's turn to hesitate. "_Eh?_"

"So, what? What can you possibly do now? You're stuck in a ring."

"_Minor setback. I have...leverage_."

_Merlin_, Arthur thought, forgetting that the Nameless One could hear his mental words. He ignored the daemon and hastened towards Daphne. "Is she dead?"

The sorceress sobbed. Chest shuddering, she hiccoughed, "N-n-no-oh."

"Then why are you crying?" _Again_, he added to himself.

She stood. "It...it's just so _h-hard_," she stammered. "I—I love her. She's my sister, but she...Kale...My son..." She looked like she needed a hug, but Arthur wasn't sure if he wanted to become a human handkerchief again. Besides, now was not the time for weakness.

"Daphne, listen to me," the king ordered gruffly, crouching to help the woman stand. "What's done is done. You know that what you did was wrong, what your sister did was wrong, but now is the time for redemption. Can you fix this?"

"Fix what?"

"This," replied the king, swinging an arm wide to embrace the wards, the soul gems, the daemon. "All this must end. Necromancy is dark, evil. You're not evil, are you?"

"Yes!" Daphne shrieked, pulling at her greasy hair. "Yes, I _am_ evil! I've done that which cannot be forgiven. I have played with fire and now I shall burn in it." She looked ready to collapse again, to slump helplessly against the stone table that still held her deceased husband and son. Arthur tightened his grip on her shoulders and shook her.

"Listen, Daphne. _Listen to me_," he growled through his teeth. "You can redeem yourself— Stop crying!" The abrupt order silenced the witch, and the hardness in Arthur's eyes softened. "This _can_ all be forgiven. All you have to do is reverse what Naomi has done."

Before Daphne could reply, a dull thudding reached Arthur's ears. Frowning, the king raised his head and saw that his knights and Bain the bard were still stuck outside the wards, entangled in the chains of the Nameless One's wraith-like minions. One knight, Leon, had pulled an arm free and was hitting the invisible outer wall of the ward, sounding like he was banging on a thick pane of glass.

"Are you okay?" the knight called, his voice muffled. Arthur nodded, abashed for forgetting about his companions. They were in as much danger as he, perhaps more, for they were still captives of the black spirits under the daemon's command. Seeing what had happened to Merlin...

"How can he touch the ward?" he asked Daphne suddenly. "I thought that it was possible to just walk through...and get eaten by that thing." He flicked a thumb over his shoulder at the daemon.

"If he willed himself to pass," said Daphne, "he would."

Then came a spiteful, bone-shivering laugh. "_I can do anything I want...with your little friends, mortal king_," said the Nameless One. It had taken the form of a hooded human, a unfathomed void of nonentity, stark against the glow of the soul gems. "_Anything I want_—"

"Not for long," Daphne hissed, tearing away from Arthur and diving for the necromancy staff.

"_No!_" The daemon was helpless as the sorceress scooped up the tool and held it aloft, barking a quick order in an arcane language. All at once, the daemon's black spirits, the lost souls, faded from existence, taking their restricting chains with them. The knights were free. "_Stop this...at once!_" the Nameless One ordered, now in the shape of a ghastly buzzard, beak open in a soundless shriek.

"What did you do?" Arthur asked, astonished.

"I cut the daemon off completely from the outside world," Daphne replied, though she sounded as equally surprised at her accomplishment, if not more so. "Naomi had left open the tiniest of windows, so as to let the black spirits through and have the Nameless One commanded them...in part. She kept the rest of the control for herself."

"So, you're a necromancer, too?"

"A sorceress can do any sort of magic if she puts her mind to it. It's the level of skill that is restricted; I can do little compared to Naomi."

As though aroused by the use of her name, Naomi groaned, stirring. Without breaking her verbal stride, Daphne kicked her sister in the head, and the necromancer drifted back into the abyss of the unconscious. "Now the daemon is entirely restricted to these wards, which will hold strong for all eternity—as far as I am aware—thanks to the monoliths," she continued, nodding at the tall, rounded stones in turn, "unless the ring of soul gems is broken. But we're not going to do that. We're going to send it back."

"_And not...resurrect your family?_"

Daphne stiffened, as did Arthur.

"_This is what you _wanted, _Daphne_," the daemon continued eagerly, a chilled man coaxing the embers. "_Your lover, your child, back in your arms to...forever live in blissful tranquillity_."

"Don't listen to it," Arthur cautioned urgently, tearing his gaze away from the Nameless One and staring deep into the hazel gaze of the witch. "This is not what you want. This is wrong. This is what your _sister_ wanted—"

"_He's manipulating you, Daphne_," the daemon insisted. "_Twisting you...to reach his own selfish ends. Make a deal with me, and I'll bring back your family. The Pendragon means to use you!_"

"Shut up!" Arthur roared as he saw the flicker of hesitation, a flash of longing, in Daphne's eyes.

"_I am your lover's salvation! I alone can bring you...happiness again. Kill the Pendragon, win back Kale and little Adam...Kill him!_"

* * *

Arthur ducked beneath the seasoned wood that formed the staff of necromancy. He couldn't _believe_ it!

"Daphne, stop! It's lying to you!"

The sorceress was crying again even as she sought to brain Arthur with the staff. "I'm sorry, my lord," she sobbed. "I can't take the loneliness anymore! You _must_ understand."

_She's insane!_ the king thought as he danced around the dangerous weapon. _All this – the daemon, her family, her sister – it's driven her off the edge_.

During the few split seconds he had to gather his bearings, Arthur saw that his knights were struggling to figure out what to do outside the ring of monoliths. Bain must have already reminded them that they couldn't pass through the wards without being consumed completely by the Nameless One, which, even as the mini battle raged on, was laughing in pure glee and euphoria at the chaos it had caused.

As Daphne made to strike again, Arthur lunged forward and grappled the staff so that it was held pinned between them. Being by far the strongest, the king was able to immobilize Daphne, unless she released it. She didn't.

"Let go!" she screeched, tears mapping a course through the grit on her cheeks. She tugged and pulled while Arthur calmly held onto the staff, then tried to punch and claw at him to make him relinquish his hold. All was fruitless.

"Daphne, this is madness!" Arthur snapped, barely acknowledging the puny throbs of pain birthed of the witch's hits and scratches. She was a knife-thrower; she didn't need strength for that...

_The knives_, he remembered, and was _just_ in time to throw his lower body back and avoid the slippery dagger in Daphne's hand. With a sudden jerk, he yanked the staff out of the sorceress's grasp and jumped backwards, the blade missing his belly by inches.

"Give it back!" Daphne lunged for him, but he was too fast. He rushed around the central stone table, putting it between himself and her. Then he held the staff horizontally, the middle touching his raised knee.

"Come closer, or reach for another dagger, and I'll snap it in two," he growled, putting pressure on the wood for emphasis. Aged as it was, the king had no doubt that he could break it. He just wasn't sure if he could do it before one of Daphne's knives ended up between his ribs.

The woman hesitated, glancing from the staff to Arthur's enraged eyes and back again. Clearly, she was calculating the odds herself. The king put yet more pressure on the tool.

"Wait! Don't!" she screamed, empty hand raised. "Don't...please..."

Arthur didn't dampen his force, but he glared at Daphne to show that he was listening.

"I...I need it," she whimpered, letting the knife in her hand fall to the ground. "I need it."

She was pathetic. Through the deceit and selfishness and ambivalent tendencies, Arthur couldn't help but feel sympathy for her. Who knew how long her sister had been subconsciously belittling her, all the while plotting behind her back to get her hands on Daphne's husband, a husband whom they were trying to resurrect using the soul of Gwenevere, and that of countless others.

_Gwen_, he thought, chest tightening. Daring to indulge himself in a distraction, Arthur glanced over to where his knights and Bain were arguing fiercely amongst each other, their heated words muffled by the wards. Gwaine was missing from the group. Where did he go?

A few moments later, his question was answered. The knight emerged from the surrounding trees with a limp form held in his arms. A dull ache accompanied Arthur's constricting chest as he realized that it was Merlin. Gwaine caught the king's eye and shook his head gravely.

What does that mean? Merlin wasn't dead, surely.

"_Have you ever seen a man go mad, Pendragon?_" the Nameless One purred. "_It can happen slowly, yet with the prompting of pain and suffering, time seems to...outrun itself. Look out._"

Arthur frowned. "What—? OW!" His knee seemed to bend the wrong way as a foot came out of nowhere and kicked it. Falling over, he was able to see a flash of Naomi's cloak before he hit the ground, the staff still in hand. An instant later, the necromancer was upon him, pressing the length of the staff down on the king's throat and pinning him down.

Arthur choked, but his strength was the superior to Naomi as it was to Daphne. Grasping on either side of the staff, he forced it off and away from his neck with ease, but there was a look in the witch's eye that he didn't like.

A moment later, he knew why.

It was entirely involuntary when Arthur curled into a ball, but then, Naomi had kneed him in the groin in a very un-sportsmanly manner. She cackled like the witch she was as she tugged the staff of necromancy away from his grasp and stood over him in revulsion. The king could only gasp helplessly in agony, trying not to throw up.

"Mans' greatest weakness," Naomi sneered, kicking Arthur in the back for good measure, not that the king noticed through his pain.

Nausea swirled throughout Arthur's body as he tried to stand up. He refused to fail because of a wee ache in his manhood!

_Crack!_

A staggering blow to the head, however, was a different story.

Dazed, Arthur fell back over, this time clutching his skull and fighting to retain consciousness.

"Stay down!" Naomi ordered, raising the staff again warningly. "Or I'll feed you to the soul devourer myself!"

Arthur was in no place to argue. With his head under a drummer's mallet and his groin in crippling agony, he was as helpless as a newborn bird. Still, he managed to put on a brave, defiant face as Naomi turned away and faced her sister haughtily.

"Not even strong enough to knock me out for long," she scoffed. Daphne looked terrified, her hazel eyes wide and shiny, like a doe's.

"Naomi..." she whimpered. "Sister..."

The necromancer flared, her presence seeming to swell in her anger. "You're done, Daphne. I have no more use for you. I'm giving you one chance to walk through those wards protected, and leave forever. Kale will be mine, and you will be alone, as you should have been seven years ago!"

Even as her sister swelled, Daphne wilted like a neglected flower. "You're banishing me."

"Banishing, exiling, _disowning_. You have no place here anymore. Your family is dead! It's my turn now." Naomi lifted the cursed staff. The eyes of the carved skull on the top glowed ominously. "Now go."

"You're really just going to let her do that to you?"

The sorcerer sisters turned in sync towards Arthur, who was using the nearest pedestal, holding the blue soul gem, to stand up. His knees shook, but his head cleared as he straightened and he swallowed the pain pulsing from his manhood in waves.

"You're just going to throw away everything over your selfish sister's desire? I thought _you_ loved Kale, Daphne. I thought Adam was _your_ son."

The witch muttered something.

"What? What did you say?"

Daphne sniffed. "He _is_ mine. They're both mine. Not Naomi's. Never Naomi's."

"Daphne, I'm warning you—"

The sorceress drew herself up. "Kale never loved you. I could tell. In fact, you disgusted him, Naomi."

The necromancer stuttered with outrage. "You dare—?"

"Yeah, she dares," Arthur snapped, impatient with Naomi's impudence.

"Be silent, you _insolent_—!"

Arthur caught the staff before it cracked over his head again, but it wasn't a good grip, and Naomi was able to yank it away before turning to the ever-observing Nameless One.

"We made a deal, daemon," she declared. "For the souls in these _ą____nima gēmm__ą__, the spirits, __minds, and bodies of Kale and Adam shall be reunited here today. Go, daemon, cross the Veil, enter the Vault and fetch back their souls."_

"No!" Arthur lunged for the staff, but even as he touched it, a cackle of electricity circulated from Naomi's arms through into him. He stiffened, frozen in a silent scream and picturing himself frying from the inside out, until he suddenly flew back and away from Naomi, to crash into a pedestal holding a soul gem. The little rock wobbled precariously, but did not fall.

Arthur coughed, burning painfully everywhere. It was like the necromancer had shot a bolt of lightning into him. Not that he knew much about the different types of sorceresses and their magic, he had a feeling that if anyone else had done that, like Daphne, he would not even be gasping for breath as he was. He would be finished.

He must have been lying there far longer than he thought. When he opened his eyes, Naomi was standing over him, a cocky look on her face. Except for the continuous throb of the monoliths, all was silent. The Nameless One's chuckles ceased be heard. Not only that, but the seven soul gems were no longer glowing. But that could only mean...

"You bitch," Arthur breathed, shock jostling fury for space. Neither seemed to be winning out. He started to stand. Naomi let him. "You're going to regret this—"

"Save it, petty king," the sorceress sneered, unfazed by how much taller Arthur was than her, how looming he seemed. "What is done is done. You're just going to have to live with it."

Naomi didn't know Arthur. She didn't know his personality, his mind or his strengths. She didn't know about his temper. She didn't know to never make Arthur Pendragon angry.

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**I don't really have a plan of how I'm going to update from here on out. Certainly, it's going to be a _little_ more rapid-fire, because it's coming to a point where a few details need to be remembered in order for things to make sense. Two weeks is too long. If it's once a week, then there will be seven more weeks of updates (Just to give you an idea of how much is left). Why am I telling you this? I don't know. The voices in my head told me to.**

**;D**


	24. A Vengeful King

**Urg. I thought S5 was supposed to be on the 29th. Looks like the 6th of October now. AHG! I CAN'T TAKE THE ANTICIPATION!**

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~24~ A Vengeful King

Leon had been waiting for the moment for several minutes. He recognized it now when he saw the king's enraged face flare red with uncontrollable fury as he faced Naomi the necromancer.

"Arthur!" he roared, and threw the sword he had recovered from the trees. The blade spun end over end, slipping through the outer ward and slowing dramatically as though through sludgy water. Leon feared that his throw had been too weak, but then the sword broke out the inner ward and landed in the safe central circle. It had barely touched the ground before Arthur pounced on it and swung at Naomi's head.

* * *

The sorceress was faster than she looked. With a small cry, she raised the staff and deflected the blow. The blade should have shattered the wood, backed as it was by Arthur's rage, but just before contact, the tool started to glow with a faint white light, like it had a ward of its own.

_I hate sorcery!_ Arthur screamed inwardly, as he made to impale the witch with the sword. Again, the strike was parried, but he was not discouraged.

Sword and staff were blurs of light and steel as king and necromancer fought in a circle, Naomi retreating, Arthur irrevocably advancing, not to mention winning.

For the first time, Naomi looked afraid.

"Daphne! Stop him!" she wailed, cringing helplessly as Arthur's strikes grew ever more veracious and ferocious. He could barely hear the witch sister's reply.

"I'm sorry, Naomi. I'm not strong enough."

The king's crushing bombardment seemed to smother the necromancer's memory, making her forget that she had magic and Arthur did not. Terror was gripping her, trapping her like a shrew in the talons of a vengeful hawk.

_And rightly so_, Arthur thought grimly, just as he made a powerful downward stroke, bashing the staff from her grasp.

Arthur wasn't normally one for slaying a woman, even an enemy, but even so, he felt himself lift the sword up, higher and higher, until its point pricked Naomi's chin, drawing blood. She whimpered, helpless, powerless without her accursed staff.

"M-mercy," she whined. "My lord, mercy, _please_."

The king glowered with unrestrained disgust and loathing. Hot-headed, self-centred, insufferable she-devils when in power, but simpering boot-lickers once slapped down, grovelling for forgiveness when none was to be found. The witch revolted him, they _both_ did.

"Mercy? _Mercy?_ Did you show _him_ mercy?" Arthur demanded, pointing at the limp form of Merlin in Gwaine's arms and trembling with fury so dementedly, he couldn't hold the sword steady at Naomi's throat. She hissed painfully, stiffening even more, as blood began to slide down the edge of the blade. "And what about Gwenevere, eh? Did you show _her_ mercy? You have taken everything from me. I will give no mercy in return!"

"WAIT!"

Naomi gasped as a fresh slit penetrated her neck, not enough for any real damage, but proof of Arthur's intentions. Even so, the king held back from impaling her, involuntarily willing, strangely, to listen to Daphne's plea.

"Please, don't harm her."

Arthur nearly ignored her. Daphne had already proved herself too unstable and unpredictable. But...she could have stabbed him in the back by now...

"I...I don't think she should be killed, not by your hand."

"You would kill me?" Naomi sneered, impudence returning full-fledged now that Arthur was hesitating. "Your own sister?"

Daphne shook her head. Her face was calm, impassive, her eyes cold and steady. Her breath didn't shake, her arms were held, relaxed, at her sides. There was no threat to be seen, only heard and felt. It would seem, now that she saw her sister defeated, that there was a flicker of true spirit within her.

"No," she said. "I cannot kill you." She stepped closer as she spoke, ignoring Arthur as he tensed in warning, and stooped to pick up the staff. The king let her. "I am not you. I do not take what does not belong to me."

_Unless compelled by someone else_, Arthur growled inwardly, never forgetting that it was Daphne who employed Vraal the vampyre to steal Gwen's soul.

The witch seemed to swell with the power channelled by the staff even as Naomi wilted. "You are no longer worthy to wield this great power, sister," she said, the tool in her hand glowing brightly. "You have proven your faults, and therefore _I_ banish _you._ I am not you," she repeated. "I will not kill you."

Naomi was trembling, though in fear or fury, Arthur couldn't tell. Probably both. "You have no power here, _sister_," she snapped, but then she choked. Her eyes bulged in shock as her hands clasped her mouth. Arthur frowned, remaining still as the necromancer staggered back, terror as vivid on her face as blood on parchment.

Unnerved, the king manoeuvred himself so that he had both sorceresses in plain sight. Daphne remained as cool as a cucumber even as Naomi looked to be staring into the grotesque face of doom. Her doom.

She could only open her mouth part way, Arthur noticed, and realized suddenly that Daphne had silenced her, silenced her by gluing her tongue to the roof of her mouth, just as Naomi herself had done to Merlin.

The necromancer seemed to want to scream and throw a temper tantrum. Her face was a flame and her eyes were shards of ice, but Daphne was not perturbed. Instead, she merely lifted an arm and pointed straight out of the ring of wards. Now Naomi looked afraid, but her sister nodded once, and she knew that she had little choice.

With what could only be tears of rage and humiliation, the necromancer fled, passing harmlessly through the wards and vanishing into the darkness of the trees, never to be seen again. The knights and Bain looked ready to pursue her, but with a swift motion of Arthur's arm, they held their ground.

"Let them in," Arthur ordered, and Daphne, to his surprise, indulged him.

Elyan, cautious, forcibly opted to proceed first, and stuck one leg through before hastening to the central circle. He winced at the closer view of the two corpses on the stone table as Leon and then Bain stepped through. Gwaine came last, still holding Merlin in his arms. The servant was limp and pale, just like Gwen was when her soul was taken. Arthur resisted the urge to approach him, and instead faced Daphne. The sorceress was already studying him intently, tears not yet fallen in her eyes.

"What becomes of us?" she said softly.

"_A choice_," slithered an old voice. "_A choice shall be made_._ And I think you'll find it a very...intriguing choice to make._" The Nameless One laughed, making everyone shudder like wet puppies.

"The deal's off!" Arthur snapped, facing the black abyss of the daemon fearlessly. He held the sword up, Naomi's blood on its tip. "Your conjurer is gone, the agreement is now void. Bring back those souls!"

"_Oh, but it's too late for...that, little mortal king_," replied the Nameless One in mock severity. "_They're already...gone_."

"Gone? Gone where? Bring them back, I say!"

The daemon's laughing was starting to ruffle Arthur's feathers, not scare him. As it took the form of a serpentine lizard, black tongue flickering, it crawled around the ring, inspecting each person in turn. When it paused at Gwaine, studying Merlin, the knight growled and turned away with the servant protectively. The Nameless One merely scoffed.

"_As I said, there is nothing I can do for those souls, now. They are...gone_."

Arthur hefted his sword. "Then you shall stay here until—"

"No."

The king looked at Daphne questionably. "No?"

With a smooth, calm grace that proved to Arthur that he'll never properly understand her, Daphne stepped up beside him and stared impassively at the daemon. Any disturbances of the evening seemed to have had minimal affects on her. It made her all the more unpredictable.

"What it says is true. They are gone."

Arthur raged inwardly. _No, it cannot be true! Gwenevere!_

Daphne must have seen the inferno within him, for she suddenly looked very sad. "I'm sorry, my lord."

"_Don't you mortals...ever listen? I said you have a choice to make._"

But Arthur would have no more of it. "Trap the daemon here," he ordered Daphne. "Trap it, but make sure that no one can find it and free it. It can suffer here for—"

"_I have your lover's soul, Arthur Pendragon._"

Silence.

"I don't believe you!" the king roared, itching to use the sword but knowing that it would do no good. He was trembling again with uncontrollable rage. He wanted to scream. He wanted to strangle Daphne. He wanted to cry, for his lost friend and lost lover. No sense of duty or pride could hold him for long, not anymore...

"_Trap me here if you will, but you'll never see your dearie again, little king_..."

A muscle in Arthur's jaw jumped, his eyes closed against the pain none can escape. He couldn't help but listen, and the daemon knew it.

"_Your closest friend, your dearest lover...yes, quite the choice_."

"Speak sense, creature!" snapped Leon. Clearly, he and the knights could hear the Nameless One as well, not just Arthur.

"_Without the power of a true necromancer...there is little you can do to me_," sneered the void, becoming the shape of an enormous rat and sitting on its hind feet, sniffing inquisitively. "_You cannot even imprison me for long_." It pawed at a black ear and then leaned forward, as though to share a secret. "_But even one so heartless and soulless as I can be merciful. I am going to offer you a deal_."

"No," Arthur growled. "No more deals. You didn't even uphold yours with Naomi – Kale and Adam are still dead."

"_But you said so yourself, Arthur Pendragon, that she is gone, and therefore the deal...stands void. It was too late for those_ poor _souls in the_ _ąnima gēmmą____, but I clung to your queen because I knew I was going to have...a bit of fun._"

"Too late? What do you mean, too late?" Arthur demanded. "What did you do to them?"

"___That is none of your concern, little king. Are you willing to negotiate_?"

"Bad idea, sire," said Bain, silent for so long. It was hard to think the man as once being a boisterous bard. "Deals with devils never end well."

"I agree," announced Leon, despite the harried look on Elyan's face and Gwaine's tense posture as he looked down at Merlin, limp in his arms.

Arthur gritted his teeth. He knew what was coming. It's going to offer one or the other, he thought, already feeling the angst tear at his heart like rabid dogs. Merlin or Gwenevere. Friendship and loyalty or love and duty...friendship and loyalty...love and duty...

Though it had no mouth, Arthur could sense the diabolical grin spreading across the daemon's nonexistent features. "___Indeed,__ sire. ____Which shall it be, then? The servant boy, Merlin, your closest and oldest friend, who has stayed with you through countless adventures...fought with you...bled with you – yes, I can see his memories – or the beautiful Gwenevere, your queen and first sweetheart, the only woman you have ever truly loved, who is with child even as we speak...The choice is yours, Arthur Pendragon._"

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**Now **___**here's**_**a challenge for you. Who would**___**you**_** choose?**


	25. The Devil's Deal

**Because I'm your friend, I'm updating extra extra early x3 ...Plus this chapter's short, but that's beside the point.**

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~25~ The Devil's Deal

The king was unable to meet anyone's eye. Numbness had claimed his limbs and his mind. He couldn't even begin to think of a solution to the anxiety that would only end in suffering, one way or another.

Merlin's soul, or Gwenevere's.

"There is nothing that you can..." he croaked, looking to Daphne. The woman shrugged helplessly.

"What the daemon said is true. I am no necromancer; my powers over it, and the staff, are minimal." She lowered her voice. "It is at the advantage, now, my lord."

"_Indeed, I am_," the Nameless One purred, obviously overhearing. "_I can leave any time I want, thanks to you. I am grateful for your driving out of the real necromancer._"

"Sire," whispered Leon, but he clearly had nothing to say. The others looked guilty, lost, dumbfounded. Arthur was even more so.

Merlin or Gwenevere. The choice was either lungs or air, mind or body, heart or soul. One could not be where the other was not, not in Arthur's life.

Duty, of course, put Gwen's foot forward. As queen, she had a place in Camelot that could not easily be filled if lost—at least without making Arthur's life lonely and miserable. She was also carrying a little life of her own, but what if the baby no longer lives? What if it had died when Vraal stole the essence of Gwen's being?

Then there was Merlin. Ever faithful, ever caring, ever idiotic. The young fool who had seen through Arthur's faults and illuminated the good in him, scarce as it was when they were but squabbling boys in the market. He would be furious, unforgiving, if Arthur asked for his soul instead of Gwen's. That didn't make a decision come any easier.

Arthur tasted metal, and he suddenly realized there was a lacing pain in his mouth and a cramp in his hand. He had squeezed the sword hilt until his knuckles were white and shivering while biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. Licking the saltiness away, the king straightened, for that was what he was: a king. He could not, shall not, show weakness now. His father had always said that there were decisions in life that were going to seem impossible to make, though they had to be made...for the good of the kingdom.

"For the good of the kingdom," he whispered softly to himself. His throat closed.

"Arthur," said Elyan, but uttered nothing else. The king knew his pain: Gwen was his sister, tying him closer to her than any other knight there, by more than just duty. Yet Merlin was his friend, too.

Arthur scanned each of his companions in turn. Elyan looked pained beyond measure. Leon's expression was dark and stormy, yet with threads of despair. Bain was impassive, making it impossible for Arthur to determine his thoughts. It wasn't really his place to give an opinion anyway. Gwaine, too, tried to hold his features steady, to keep a brave stature, but as Merlin, soulless, shifted feebly in his arms, the knight swallowed and turned faded eyes away. Daphne was staring at her feet.

Fists balling, the king faced the Nameless One again and saw, to his horror, that the daemon had taken the form of Gwenevere, one hand pressed against the ward, the other held to her face as though brushing away tears.

"_I miss you, Arthur_," it said, with the perfect imitation of the queen's voice. "_Please come back to me_."

"Stop..."

With a barely suppressed chuckle, the void swirled until it formed Merlin, arms crossed, and would probably be scowling if it had any features. "_You would leave me here, with this_ thing? _I thought you cared about me_."

"Shut up!" Arthur covered his ears. The daemon Merlin laughed cruelly.

"_You can't love us both, Arthur Pendragon_," it jeered, changing back into Gwenevere but retaining its own voice. "_There's no room in the heart of man for that_."

"Liar!"

"_Choose, mortal! I tire of this game. I have souls to play with, and two more admittances if you do not choose, so_ choose!"

"I...I..."

"Arthur," croaked Elyan again. Gwaine was shifting foot to foot.

"_Hurry, little king_..."

"But I..."

"_CHOOSE!_"

"I CAN'T!"

"_Then they shall _both_ remain here! You've doomed them, Arthur Pendragon—_"

"Take ME!"

A pause. "..._I beg...your pardon?_"

The king was sure that if there was a stone in his mouth, he would have gnawed it to powder. "You're offering one soul freely. Take mine in exchange for the other."

"Arthur, no!" Leon stepped forward, but Arthur held up a hand, and the knight stopped automatically. "You're mad!"

But the king's heart was already sinking; the Nameless One, now a hyena, was shaking its head contemptuously. "_This isn't...an exchange booth, mortal,_" it sneered. "_Queen or servant. It is fair compensation for...your troubles. If you don't decide in the next few seconds, I will leave, and you'll get nothing. One...two—_"

"_No!_" Arthur swung the sword, but it was to his utmost surprise when the blade halted in midair, though his arm kept going, throwing him off balance. "What in hellfire...?" He glanced up at the suspended weapon. _Magic!_

...But no. Even as he stared at it, something odd tugged at the back of his mind, and he realized that it was because no one else was acknowledging the peculiar phenomenon. His heart jolted as he looked at his companions. Each was frozen – Leon with his mouth open, Gwaine in mid-snarl, Elyan reaching for his sword and Bain drawing his bow – all frozen in time, even the Nameless One.

"God..."

"Not quite."

Arthur whirled around, startled, and saw someone he had hoped never to see again. "Cailleach!"

The hooded Gatekeeper of the Veil stood solemnly within the boundaries of the wards, one pale hand clasping her staff, hollow, melancholy eyes studying him blankly. "Well met, Arthur Pendragon."

"What do you want?" the king snapped, hand itching to take up a sword and strike her down, but knowing that it would do no good. Hate roiled within his blood; he hadn't forgotten what had happened to Sir Lancelot.

"You know you can make this decision, Arthur Pendragon. You know it in your heart—"

"No, I can't," he replied, struggling to not let his voice crack. "I can't—"

"Nevertheless, it is not up to you to decide. Your choice would mean the end of you, the end of Camelot, the end of Albion."

Arthur seethed. "Speak sense, she-devil, or not at all!"

For a while, the Cailleach was silent, then she said, coldly, "You must choose your servant, Merlin."

"What?" Arthur blinked, puzzled. "'Must?' Why? Why not Gwenevere?"

"Because it has been written."

"What does that even mean?" _She knew?_ he thought incredulously. _She knew my decision before I did? How can that be?_ "Written where? I don't trust you!"

"Very wise, mortal, to not trust that which cannot be proven trustworthy. But wisdom shall trip here and make you fall. Heed my warning, or suffer the consequences. Choose the servant."

"What madness is this? Explain yourself...Don't you disappear on me! _Cailleach!_"

The Gatekeeper was gone. Arthur cursed foully, kicking at the stone table just as time resumed itself. The suspended sword behind him fell with a clatter. Leon shouted what he had meant to say and Elyan drew his sword. Then they paused, staring at their king even as he stared at them. It must have been odd, seeing Arthur now a few paces away from where he had been, suddenly unarmed and in mid-curse, a split second before.

Gwaine was blinking owlishly. "What the...What's going on?"

Even the daemon seemed surprised, though it hid it a moment later. "_A fascinating trick, little king. So, are you going to choose, or...can I go play now?_"

Arthur stiffened. _Choose the servant_. Not Gwenevere. Merlin. But _why?_

"I...I choose..."

The tension was so thick, it was a wonder why no one drowned in it.

"I choose...Merlin." His voice split, and he immediately covered his eyes with his hand. Behind him, he could hear Elyan stiffen, gasping sharply through his nose. Bain was silent, as was Leon, while Gwaine took a step forward.

"Arthur..."

Small pricks invaded his eyes. Were they tears of shame? Regret? Arthur swallowed the lump in his throat, and said, loudly and clearly, "Well, daemon? Did you not understand me? I said I choose Merlin!"

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**Thanks y'all for the lovely reviews for the last chapter! They made me glad to be alive! :D**


	26. Mephistopheles

******A ****_really_**** long chapter. I didn't want it to be this long, but there have been too many cliffies recently. After all, there are cliffies, and then there are interruptions, and this one shouldn't be interrupted. Know what I mean?**

******Happy Canadian Thanksgiving! :D**

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"_I choose...Merlin." His voice split, and he immediately covered his eyes with his hand. Behind him, he could hear Elyan stiffen, gasping sharply through his nose. Bain was silent, as was Leon, while Gwaine took a step forward._

"_Arthur..."_

_Small pricks invaded his eyes. Were they tears of shame? Regret? Arthur swallowed the lump in his throat, and said, loudly and clearly, "Well, daemon? Did you not understand me? I said I choose Merlin!"_

₪ † ₪

~26~ Mephistopheles

The Nameless One shifted, an air of surprise radiating from it like heat. Then it turned to amusement as its shaped swirled into a formless mass. "_I see. Well, I suppose I...shall oblige your request. Bring the boy forward._"

Elyan couldn't hide his sorrow, and wept openly. Leon hung his head, numb, as Gwaine hesitantly came forward, bearing Merlin limp in his arms.

"Arthur," the knight croaked. "Sire, I..."

"Don't argue. Come here," snapped the king, harsher than he intended. Gwaine's features hardened, but he obeyed, coming to stand beside him.

"_Closer, mortal._"

Taunt, Gwaine took yet another step, until he was just before the ward and the daemon.

"_Put his arm through_."

Arthur came forward and grabbed Merlin's arm, not gently, and pulled it until the hand passed through the invisible ward. Like dropping a pebble in a pond, the ward rippled outwards from Merlin's arm.

The king flinched as a shadowed tendril licked from the Nameless One and attached to the limb. Darkness coated the servant's flesh, wrapping around his fingers like a glove. Arthur was tempted to yank the arm back over, but he resisted.

_The Cailleach better have known what she was talking about_, he growled inwardly, _or else I'll kill her!_

As moments dragged by like snails, both he and Gwaine looked down at Merlin, whose blank white eyes were staring emptily out at nothing. His lips twitched as though anxious to whisper a secret. A hollow husk, just like Gwenevere.

_Gwen,_ Arthur thought mournfully. _Oh gods, what have I done?_

"What's taking so long?" he suddenly snarled, startling even himself. As though on cue, the daemon withdrew its clingy tendril from Merlin's hand and Arthur pulled the limb out, back into safety.

"_'Tis done_," said the Nameless One smugly.

Gwaine hastily stepped back from the ward, allowing everyone to swarm expectantly, though Daphne the dagger kept her distance. Merlin's eyes had closed, but it was like he was dreaming – they could see his eyes moving beneath their lids rapidly.

"Merlin?" Arthur said gruffly. No response.

"_You may want to give him...a little poke._"

Slowly, the king obliged—in part. Instead of poking, he curled his middle finger against his thumb and flicked Merlin in the forehead. "Wake up, clotpole."

The servant's eyes shot open, wide and terrified. He took in a deep gust of air, and immediately broke down in a fit of guttural, violent coughs. Gwaine could do nothing as Merlin suddenly squirmed, rolling over and landing on his hands and knees on the marshy ground like a cat.

"M—" Arthur's eyebrows shot up in shock as the servant then stood and shoved past him, staggering as though drunk but bee-lining for one goal: the daemon. "What are you—? Merlin, stop!"

Merlin didn't stop. He didn't stop until he was right in front of the Nameless One, plunging his whole arm straight through the ward and into the void itself.

"Are you _mad?_" Then Arthur gawped as the servant's arm reemerged with _Excalibur_, glowing as though a light burned from within. The Nameless One hissed, in pain? Fury? Fear? It roiled back from the illuminated blade, as bewildered that it had been inside it as anyone.

"_What is this magic?_" it demanded, then shrieked as Merlin stabbed _Excalibur_ straight into the centre of the formless void.

It was a horrible sound. It was like a thousand tortured souls screaming bloody throats raw all at once. Arthur quailed, covering his ears and shutting his eyes. "What's happening?" he roared over the hellish din, but no one heard him. They were all cowering as well, hands over their ears protectively. "Merlin, stop this!"

The servant was still holding _Excalibur_ in the daemon, which squirmed and roiled in agony as flashes of white lightning flicked from the blade and shot through its body, if it could be called a body. It looked to be trying to escape, but the sword wouldn't let it.

_How is this possible?_ Arthur asked himself incredulously, but what was even more astonishing was when Merlin moved stiffly, as though possessed, to reach and take up the nearest dead soul gem from a pedestal. He gripped the small rock in his hand, and Arthur stared at it, only to glance slightly to the right and see, past Merlin's upraised arm, the Cailleach standing coolly just behind the Nameless One. However, she looked more like a pale reflection, a ghost, only there in part.

As if things weren't confusing enough!

"Now!" Merlin screamed, and shoved his fist with the soul gem into the heart of the void.

There was a flash of bright light, so intense that Arthur had to look away. There were more shrill howls of tormented souls, but they were fading now. The king tried to open his eyes as the light, too, dulled, but then he grunted as Merlin yelped and crashed into him, as though knocked aside by a monstrous hand.

"The wards!" Daphne shrieked. "There's a rift in the wards!"

"Get off me, you buffoon!" Arthur snapped, blind as he tried to shove the servant away. In the tangle of legs and arms, Arthur felt _Excalibur_ brush against his hand. Air hissed through his teeth and he yanked his arm away. The blade was red-hot! "What the _hell_ did you think you were doing?" he demanded, finally able to crawl away from Merlin. He was surprised to see the servant shaking his head, the glowing green soul gem tight in his fist.

"I...I don't know. I was compelled—"

"_Look at what you've done to me!_"

The companions stared in shock at the Nameless One, which writhed and twisted upon itself like an injured snake. An injured snake can be more dangerous than a whole one.

"_You fool! You have no idea of what you've just done_." The daemon swelled, taking the form of a tall, winged hooded man. The wings spread ominously, and the darkness loomed over the companions as it unsheathed a sword that swallowed light greedily.

Merlin was frozen to the spot. The Nameless One stepped through the now breached ward, into the living world, and turned the blade point down for a stabbing kill. "_You die!_"

_Excalibur_ flashed. Red-hot or not, Arthur took up the sword and swung it to parry the black blade before it impaled his quailing servant. The daemon howled in fury as its weapon disintegrated upon contact, melting into smoke that quickly dissipated.

"_Meddling king!_" The shadowed figure, a near ten feet tall, reached inside itself to draw out a long stave with a curved blade on the end. Now with a scythe, wings, and a hooded mask, it was the perfect image of an angel of death. "_Your soul is mine!_"

Bain drew his bow and shot an arrow straight for the daemon angel's forehead. The bolt passed through harmlessly, and the creature snorted in derision.

"_Your petty weapons cannot harm me. You...are nothing!_"

Leon and Elyan made to move forward, but they would have perished if Gwaine didn't stop one and Merlin the other. They dragged the knights back, putting the stone table between them and the monster.

"Don't go near it!" Daphne warned, then gave a shriek and ducked as the black scythe slashed overhead. She held the staff of necromancy diagonally before her like a shield, not that it would do her much good.

"No problem!" said Gwaine, straightening.

_We have to get it back inside the ring_, Arthur thought, mind roiling furiously. _If we can do that, then maybe Daphne could banish it. _With a roaring battle cry, the king charged, swinging _Excalibur_ menacingly. It was to his satisfaction that the daemon flinched and retreated, but then it lashed out with its own deadly weapon. Arthur dodged, yet when he tried to hit the scythe with his still-glowing sword, to destroy it like he did the black blade, it was tugged out of reach, leaving him in a vulnerable position.

Daphne reached him first. With a small squeak, she tackled him around the waist, knocking them both to the ground and avoiding the Nameless One's attack. They each then rolled out of the way of a downward swing and got back to their feet. The scythe thudded into the ground. The daemon's massive dark wings spread in frustration, as though to take flight. The thought of such a monster free in the world stiffened Arthur's limbs, yet he made to bolt forward again—and saw the Cailleach once more standing just behind the daemon. She was nodding.

_What is she playing at?_ he asked himself even as he threw himself forward, slashing at the daemon's legs with _Excalibur._ The Nameless One roared, electrocuted by tongues of lightning. It took a step back, only for Arthur to strike at its other leg. It tried to dance out of the way but failed, wings flapping uselessly and buffeting the air into a tempest.

"Don't let it fly!" Daphne screamed, and pointed her staff straight at the creature, chanting something arcane. A flash of white flames shot out of the wooden skull at its tip and exploded against the daemon's left wing. A hole penetrated the void, and the Nameless One howled in agony before kicking a leg forward, knocking the king onto his back.

"Arthur!"

From the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Merlin scoop up _Excalibur_ and slash at the daemon, forcing it back and giving the king time to get to his feet.

"Back to Hell!" the servant roared, but the Nameless One merely laughed gutturally.

"_Back? No. I_ like _it here!_"

Merlin jumped to the side as the daemon yanked the scythe free and chopped down. The curved blade thudded back into the earth right where the servant had been standing. The void laughed again.

"Give it here, Merlin!" Arthur ordered, pointing to _Excalibur_. "Get back with the others!" They both ducked beneath a sweep of the shadow scythe, and Arthur stole the opportunity to snatch the sword and push his servant back. "Go!"

"I'm not leaving you—"

"_Go!_"

_I have to get to its heart, its centre_, he thought. _Like Merlin did. And I don't need to be protecting him at the same time!_

He did not waste time checking to see if his servant obeyed. Giving a raging roar, Arthur charged, dodging out of the deadly path of the scythe and lunging with _Excalibur_. It was a curious sensation when the blade slipped into the daemon's belly, as though he had stabbed through thick, sludgy mud. Then tingles zapped up his arm, and the Nameless One screamed in torment as yet again it was bombarded with white lightning.

_What sword is this_, Arthur thought in bewilderment, _that it can do such a thing when none other can?_

"Daphne, do something!" he heard someone command, though it may have been him. "Get rid of it!"

"_No! This is_ my _world now!_" The Nameless One tried to hit Arthur away, but its pain was too great, and it could only cringe and writhe helplessly. Its wings were useless, waving at the air with the effectiveness of a chicken's, for the hole Daphne had created had yet to repair itself. "_I will swallow your soul and that of every last creature on this puny earth! I—I—_" Its words became a meaningless lump of chaos as Arthur continued to advance, keeping _Excalibur_ in its stomach and forcing it to retreat.

"Daphne, now!" the king yelled. He had pushed the daemon back into the ring between the monoliths and the soul gem pedestals, but now that the wards had been breached, they were useless. "Send it back!"

"The _ą__nima g__ē__mm__ą__!__" _Daphne rushed towards Merlin. He still held the green one in his fist, glowing after thrusting it into the centre of the Nameless One. It had a soul in it. "I need that soul gem! If we complete the circle again, the spirit inside it may close the rift."

"Hurry up!" Arthur bellowed over his shoulder. The void was beginning to panic, thrashing desperately around _Excalibur_ like a fish on a line.

Merlin's voice sounded mournful, pleading, "I can't!"

"Give it here!"

"No! I has Gwenevere's soul in it!"

Arthur froze, his heart tripping over its own feet and tightening his chest. No, this cannot be! How could Merlin possibly know?

"Countless souls will be lost if you don't give it to me, boy!" Daphne screeched, making for the servant, who was clearly retreating. Arthur longed to turn around, but he had to keep the Nameless One in the ring. "Give it to me!"

"No!"

There was the sound of a skirmish, and the knights calling out in alarm.

_Don't give in, Merlin_, Arthur begged inwardly. Sweat was dripping into his eye, blinding him. _Don't let her go. Please_.

* * *

Merlin rolled away from Daphne's grasp, holding the green soul gem with Gwenevere's very essence tightly to his chest, protective.

"It will close the ward rift, boy!" the sorceress was saying. "It will forever prevent the Nameless One from swallowing this world! Give it to me!"

"I can't."

Daphne raised the staff of necromancy threateningly. "If you don't, I will—"

"This is your fault!" Merlin snapped, not faltering. "If you hadn't acted so selfishly, we wouldn't be in this mess!" _Yes_, he thought, catching the flash of concurrence in the woman's eyes. "If you think it will work, offer _your_ soul! Switch it with Gwen's."

"I...but I..." Her voice shook with fear. Then she glanced over to Arthur, who was still using _Excalibur_ to keep the Nameless One in the ring, where it could be banished once more. The knights and Bain the bard were standing by, helpless. They couldn't fight the daemon, for their weapons were useless against it, yet they were drawn anyway, prepared for the worst. "I don't know what will happen to me—"

"You don't know what will happen to Gwen, either," Merlin snarled, flaring angrily. "Again you seek to put others before you when _you_ are at fault. How can you _live_ with yourself?"

Daphne started to cry for about the millionth time that night. "But I'm scared!"

"Look at your family," Merlin said, pointing at the two flaccid corpses on the table, never to breathe life again as the sorceress had wanted. "You will make countless thousands the same, worse even. Their blood will be on your hands."

"No—"

"Yes! Do something right for a change." Merlin held out the green soul gem, prepared to snatch it back should Daphne try to steal it. "Give yourself. You are the only one who can."

* * *

Arthur's arms screamed at him. The effort to keep the daemon from bucking away and breaking loose into the world put so much strain on him. _Excalibur_ never felt so heavy.

_What are they doing?_ he asked himself, stepping sideways so that the Nameless One couldn't slide away from the blade. _Come on, Merlin, think of something_. He spotted the Cailleach again, standing just off to the side, staring impassively at the commotion. _Why can't_ she _be of any help?_

"_Puny mortal!_" the daemon growled, its large wings flapping uselessly. It had dropped its scythe, and was now simply trying to free itself. "_You cannot defeat me! I am Mephistopheles! Devourer of souls!_"

The very name weakened the king's arms. Mephistopheles. The daemon sensed the falter, and pressed its attack.

"_All your pain, all your suffering, it will be for nought! You cannot send me back, for you are not strong enough, not _brave_ enough. Your pretty sword can hurt me, but _never_ destroy me. I was old before the Cailleach existed. I was here when the very foundations of this earth were set. I know the Archons well enough to call them my friends, my enemies! I...What are you doing?_"

Arthur's frozen limbs melted, freed now that the daemon's demoralizing speech was interrupted. He glanced to his right and saw his servant standing there, a glowing green object in his hand, the sharp face of defiance on his pale features.

"No," said Merlin calmly, "we cannot defeat you. We cannot and will never be able to kill you."

"Merlin—"

"But we don't need to," the servant continued, standing tall. "We only need to banish you." With that, he placed the emerald soul gem on the empty pedestal, completing the ring. "Now, Bain!"

Arthur was too shocked to react as Merlin grappled him by the shoulders and dragged him away from Mephistopheles the daemon. _Excalibur_ flashed brightly as it slide out of the tall, hooded void, then dimmed, to pulse as though imitating a firefly.

"_No!_" Mephistopheles slashed at them with its scythe, then howled in rage as the black blade rebounded off an invisible barrier. "_NO!_"

Merlin helped Arthur to his feet, and they both staggered away from the repaired wards, closer to their astonished companions. "Do it, Bain!" the servant roared. "Get rid of it!"

"How?" The bard was holding Daphne's staff of necromancy as though it were a snake.

"How did you close the barrier? Just do the same!"

Arthur had forgotten that Bain had magic, if only very little. He had used it to command the dragon teeth to follow Vraal the vampyre's scent, and then Daphne's. That journey seemed ages ago.

The bard glanced uncertainly at the staff, then at the furious daemon attacking its wards uselessly.

"Hurry!" Merlin urged. "There's only one soul, and it may not last! Just..._wave it around_ or something!"

_Where's Daphne?_ Arthur asked himself. _Why doesn't she do it?_ He was about to enquire this of his servant when Bain suddenly aimed the staff at Mephistopheles. His face was concentrated, fierce, determined. He clearly didn't know what he was doing—

"It's working!" Gwaine exclaimed.

—But it would seem that Bain having magic was just enough. The daemon was fading.

_"____No!__" _it screamed yet again, abandoning its scythe again in favour of its hands, which clawed at the wards desperately as the void began to dissipate like ink in water. It lost its form even as it tried to hold itself together, and became transparent. "___You will never be rid of me_!" it shrieked, but its voice was dimming. "___I am Mephistopheles, and I shall return! You and your petty kingdom will be the first to die! I will return...__"_ And then, it was gone.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

Silence, thicker than an abandoned tomb's. Then Gwaine harrumphed in incredulity.

"Mother Carey's chickens, we did it."

Leon stepped cautiously towards the ring of soul gems, all but one now dead and empty. The only one with light, the green one, gradually dulled. It flickered once, and then extinguished. He reached forward, expecting resistance, but felt none.

"And just in time," he said, shaking his head. "Any longer and we would have been dead men. Or worse."

"What happened? What did you do?" Arthur demanded, glaring at Merlin. The servant was pale, sitting with his back to the stone table, upon which the two grey corpses of Daphne's family yet remained lifeless. The king didn't care that the man looked ready to collapse. He wanted answers!

Merlin shivered as though cold, staring off into nothing. At least, Arthur thought that it was nothing until he glanced over to where he was looking, and flinched. The Cailleach was standing in the ring, near one of the round-topped stone monoliths that had formed the other ward. She nodded once, then faded away.

It didn't end with that.

"Look there!" Leon pointed to a misty whiff of light, smaller than a walnut, floating just outside the monoliths.

"Another!"

"Here's one, too!"

The companions could not look at every wispy flicker of gently singing light at once, but they tried. The orbs swayed like soft flames, drifting aimlessly in and out of the trees. A few approached the company curiously, and Merlin even lifted a hand as though to let one perch on his palm. The apparition simply moved closer to his face until he went cross-eyed, and then it flew away, still giving a light, singing voice as it went.

"What are they?" asked Elyan, following one and trying to inspect it closer.

"You...you don't suppose they're...spirits?" wondered Merlin aloud. The spectres were reflecting in his wide, bedazzled eyes. "The souls Mephistopheles claimed to have taken. _Excalibur_ must have..." He hesitated.

Arthur opened his mouth but did not reply. He could only watch as one of the soul-like lights drifted towards him, kept coming until it flew right through the middle of his chest and out his back. When he turned to follow its progress, he saw another do the same to Elyan, and Leon, and all the others.

"I think they're grateful," Merlin whispered as the spirits drifted skyward, all of them, scores of them, until they faded like stars in a coming dawn. The companions stared even when kinks grew in their necks. Then Gwaine harrumphed.

"Well this just gets weirder and weirder," the knight muttered. "I, for one, am tired of weird. Let's go home."

"Home..." Arthur whispered, voice cracking. "Home, back to...Gwenevere..."

Merlin cringed, gaze flickering painfully at the king like a kicked dog. "Arthur—"

"Where is she?" Arthur demanded, teeth gritting. "Where is Gwenevere, Merlin?"

The servant swallowed, then pointed at a limp form a few paces away. It was Daphne. "I...I told her to do it. I didn't give her a choice."

Ignoring him, Arthur marched over to the sorceress and turned her over. She was warm, and she was breathing. Until recently, the king had been reassured by that. Now...

He lifted her eyelid, expecting to see the white orbs of a soulless body. Instead, he saw the hazel irises looking up as though asleep. "I don't understand," he said slowly.

"I think _you_ should explain, Merlin," said Elyan stepping forward. "Explain it all, from the beginning."

* * *

Merlin glanced at them all as they came to stand around him. Knowing that arguing wasn't going to do much good, he used the stone table to help himself stand.

"Alright. I'll do my best." He paused to collect his thoughts, then heaved a breath. "I don't know what happened to me, exactly, when I...was taken away. I was in a dark place, but then I found the Cailleach, and she told me about the Nameless—about Mephistopheles. I was 'behind' the Veil, she said, near the Vault of Souls, which is on the other side of the Gateway. She said that I needed to leave, and showed me _Excalibur_." Merlin nodded at the legendary sword, no longer illuminated, in Arthur's grasp. "I almost escaped, but then the daemon found me, and..." he shuddered, his mind already trying to suppress the hellish memories. He decided not to describe them. "Suddenly, I found myself in my body again, looking at you. I lost control then, and felt compelled to rush at Mephistopheles and take _Excalibur_ from inside it, where I had left it." He shrugged. "That makes no more sense to me than it does to you. I can only suppose that it was the Cailleach who did this, for she had made me take up the nearest soul gem and thrust it inside the daemon as well."

"She controlled you?" asked Arthur, holding back any emotion. The servant shrugged.

"I think so. My actions did not feel my own. The hand holding the soul gem got really hot then, and I could hear her, Arthur. I could hear Gwenevere's voice."

"I didn't hear anything."

"It was only for a second. She sounded...sad. But I knew from then on that it was her soul that was transferred back inside the gem." Merlin indicated at the green rock on the pedestal, now lifeless.

"Then what?" Arthur demanded, fists turning white as he squeezed the hilt of _Excalibur_. Merlin understood his anxiety, but shook his head in reassurance.

"It was not her soul that sealed the wards, sire," he said meekly. "I would never let that happen."

"Then whose was it?"

Merlin grimaced. "Isn't it obvious? It was _Daphne's_."

Frowning, Arthur glanced over at the limp sorceress's body. "So...Gwen's soul is..."

"In Daphne's body."

"...Then why isn't she moving?"

"Because it's not her body, I guess. But this doesn't mean she's out of deep water yet. We have to get back to Camelot, quickly."

"Then what are we waiting for?" asked Gwaine loudly, making as though to pick up Daphne's body.

"No, Gwaine," said Arthur gruffly. He passed his servant _Excalibur_. "I'll take her."

Gwaine looked puzzled. "But, your sword—"

"I don't want it," replied the king, lifting up the sorceress. He glanced at the warlock. "It has magic. Do what you want with it."

Merlin flinched. "But—"

"_No buts!_" Arthur snapped. "Let's move." He pointed at the soul gems. "And bring those."

Cursing inwardly, the warlock obliged begrudgingly. _He needs to keep_ Excalibur, Merlin worried mentally as he removed his neckerchief and made a little pouch, filling it with the soul gems. _I have to convince him to take it up again, somehow_...

"I know that Daphne played a big role in this," said Leon, taking up the rear behind Bain, who was still holding the necromancy staff, "but her sister was worse. _She_ should have been the one to sacrifice herself."

"Hear, hear," agreed Elyan, nodding furiously. "Naomi should pay for her crimes."

"What happened to her anyway?" asked Merlin curiously.

"Daphne drove her away." Bain nodded at the trees, a different direction from where they were heading. "Mute and shamed."

"Mute?"

The bard grinned wolfishly. "Aye. Tongue glued to the roof of her mouth. Without her staff, she is powerless. Without a voice, there is no hope."

Merlin frowned again. "What does her voice have anything to do with hope?"

Again Bain simply smiled and turned away, leaving the servant slightly bewildered.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

Naomi the necromancer sloshed her way through the swamps, tears half blinding her as she fought to free her tongue.

_That bitch, that slut! I will return, baby sister, make no mistake of that!_ she raged, breath catching as she fell face forward into a pool.

She knew the land well enough to avoid the gluttonous bogs that would swallow her whole, but she was also sorely tempted to let them. If the spell didn't wear off soon, then she would slowly starve to death anyway.

_Just wait until I get my staff again_, she growled, slowing by an old house ruin for a breather. _Then she will pay, they will all pay! I will resurrect their loved ones and torture them in front of their weeping eyes, then have the corpses tear them all apart! I will...! Wait. Is that...humming?_

Slowly, Naomi turned around. Sliding effortlessly towards her, swirling the shrouds of mists, was a long-haired, raggedly dressed woman. Her silver bangs covered her face completely. There was a long, needle-like dagger in one pallid hand and a dead bird in the other.

___No__, _Naomi whimpered, starting to run even though she knew it was fruitless. ___Gods, no!_ Behind her, the banshee screamed.

* * *

***Evil comeuppance-harbinger grin* MWA HA HA—*cough cough* 'Scuse me.**


	27. The Ties of Honour

**Heyyy, it's been exactly one year since I published my first story! *modest three-person applause* ;3**

******And don't worry. Vraal ****_will_**** return...sooner than you think...maybe...I'm not sure what you're thinking...I've just ruined my air of suspense...**

* * *

~27~ The Ties of Honour

Their brief stay at Riverstone seemed so long ago, it took a while for the companions to remember Merlin's brilliant idea he had before they'd left the drab water village. They were just departing the grove of trees and were wondering how they were possibly going to get home when Bain smacked his forehead.

"Of course! How could I have forgotten?"

The others glanced curiously at him.

"The rag! The piece of cloth Merlin cut away in Riverstone. We can use it to find our way back out of this god-forsaken place." The bard pulled out the tracking dragon teeth as the companions congratulated the servant, who blushed and shrugged modestly.

Bain cupped the teeth in the musty cloth and muttered a few words. He then threw them into the air, and when they fell, they caught themselves and hovered at waist height. "This way!" the bard declared cheerfully. He took the lead, Naomi's staff of necromancy at hand.

The journey was long and wet, but they were masters of Wraith Marsh now. They knew to avoid suspicious logs, glowing lights, and ravenous bogs. The mournful, pleading Voices, forgotten until their next rest, were harmless whispers on the wind. Once they had to sing loud and proud to drive away a banshee.

They ran out of food, so they had to resort to the land.

"As I said before, I'm _not_ eating that!" Gwaine growled, backing away from the pudgy, grotesque grey toad that Merlin had caught. The warlock winked at Arthur and then pretended to lick the mushy creature.

"Mmmm," he said, and Gwaine blanched before turning a sickly shade of green.

Every mile or so, the warlock would take out one of the seven soul gems and place it on a flat rock. Taking another stone, he would bash at it, and every hit created a new crack in the coloured gem. He smashed it until there was nothing left but powder, and then blew the dust away. The companions waited patiently, enjoying the opportunity to rest and not asking why Merlin didn't just do them in all at once.

"Precaution," he said to himself. He knew nothing about destroying soul gems, and if they could be repaired (he highly doubted that) then at least they'd be a mile apart from each other.

The last one, coincidentally, was the ruby, the one that had been part of Arthur's gift to Gwen, the part of the necklace. It was fun to destroy.

* * *

Two days later, the tired, depleted, starving company finally found the bank of the river, the opposite bank being the home of the marsh folk. Arthur set Daphne down and stretched. The woman might as well have been asleep, though she woke up once in a while to eat.

'Wake up' may not be the best way to describe it. Gwen's soul was in there, but she had no control as far as they could tell. The oddest thing was that whenever she was holding the staff of necromancy—which was often enough because she seemed drawn to it—the eyes of the skull carved on the top glowed green. It was as though it still acknowledged the magic in Daphne's body. The travellers accepted it as a good thing.

"Hm, didn't take _this_ into consideration," Bain muttered, pocketing the dragon teeth.

"What?" asked Arthur.

"We had to take a ferryman to get over here," the bard replied, fingering his chin. "But there are no ferrymen on _this_ side of the river."

"Guess they don't expect anyone who goes out there to ever come out again," Leon muttered, grimacing.

They made a lot of noise. They screamed themselves hoarse and threw big rocks into the river. It made quite the ruckus, and for a while they had feared that they had simply scared anyone from setting out with their boats to investigate, but then they saw movement in the mists, trailing through the black water.

"Curse this infernal fog!" a deep, annoyed voice rang out.

"Percival!" Gwaine called elatedly, and was quickly joined by the others.

The large knight came into view at the bow of a flatboat, waving joyously. "Finally! Thought you guys had been eaten by giant frogs or something!"

"Happened near enough," Merlin grumbled, rolling his eyes as he remembered the colossal wyrms. Arthur laughed.

Once ashore, Percival greeted them all with powerful embraces, even Bain. The shorter man grunted as he was picked up in a bear hug.

"And we're glad you weren't eaten by Vraal!" Leon joked, clasping Percival's arm, but then the larger knight looked sombre.

"Not me, but others weren't so lucky."

"What?" Arthur stepped forward. "What do you mean? What happened?"

Percival shook his head. "I will explain on the way. Let's go."

* * *

"He attacked the night you left," the knight was saying as the anxious ferryman hastily pushed off from shore. "The people were unprepared, which is to be expected, I suppose. He killed a few, but mostly batted them around, having fun." He sneered. "I tried to fight him, but he wouldn't face me. It was a most curious thing."

Merlin reacted the most to this, but as he was sitting behind everyone, no one noticed. Vraal's haunting words returned to him from that fateful night over a week ago. '_I am bound by honour and contract. I cannot kill you, for I have yet to accomplish the assignment given by my employer. Had I succeeded, we would not be speaking now. Had I chosen to continue my attempts full-heartedly, your companions would be dead and so would you by this time tomorrow. As it is, I wait_.'

"It's because of the horses," he blurted, startling everyone. They turned to him expectantly. "Vraal is under oath – he couldn't kill any of us because the horses were still alive. Remember how he attacked us just after we left Camelot? He was only after the beasts, not us. He could not harm us even after that night, because he had not fulfilled his contract."

"Fascinating," said Bain. "Even after so long, Vraal remains true to his word."

"Lucky for you," said Elyan, nudging Percival with his elbow.

"I could have taken him, if he'd faced me," snorted the knight. "At least he never got to the horses that night. The next day I took them all to the town of Soltier, coming back with just mine. The people here were too hungry for my trust anyway."

Bain rounded on him. "You're sure they're all right? If they're not, then—"

Percival raised his hands. "I should think so. I took them to stables in the middle of the town and hired people to watch them."

"How did you pay for their keep and guard?"

The knight grinned. "I've learned a trick or two from our gambling friend, here," he said, nodding his chin at Gwaine.

"Even so, we cannot linger," said Bain grimly. "We must return to Soltier at once."

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

It took two days of hard, relentless marching to reach the town. There, hungry and wary, they were obliged to stop and rest for a day. Gwaine earned them enough gold through gambling to pay for inn rooms, while Percival and Elyan got even more by winning arm-wrestling matches. With the extra, they bought proper travel clothes and paid a physician to look over them all, just to make sure they weren't going to fall ill from some swamp disease. Merlin was the only one in danger because of the small threads of vampyre venom still trickling through his veins, but the healer just told him to keep eating the mandrake root for another day or two, and he'd be fine.

"Yummy," the servant cheered flatly.

Their horses, fortunately, were safe, just impatient from the lack of activity they had suffered through. They stamped and whinnied at the sight of them, their way of scolding. Bain's watery-eyed mule, Clarence, was the only indifferent beast among them. It brayed once and twitched an ear, but that was all.

Rapier, for one, reared a little when Merlin led her out, eager to be off.

"Whoa, girl," he said, coaxing her still. He was glad that she had survived.

Noble, Arthur's favourite roan stallion, stamped impatiently as the king saddled him. Noble was a good beast, but not as fast as Rapier. Merlin studied him while he tossed his head and snorted, a strange stirring in the back of his mind, before his gaze slid over to where Arthur had placed Daphne's body, in which Gwen's soul was entrapped. The staff of necromancy in her hand was glowing again, but they had thrown a cloth over the top to hide the light.

Breathing and eating or not, it couldn't be very healthy remaining in that half-vegetative state. They had to get the body back to Camelot, fast.

"Arthur, don't take Noble."

"What?" the king turned to him, as did the others.

"We have to get Gwen's soul back to her body as fast as possible—I just have a feeling!" he snapped impatiently before the king could ask. "Take Rapier. She's big enough for two and she's faster than all of these others."

"You expect him to go out alone?" asked Leon, stepping up with his chestnut gelding.

"What else can we do?" Merlin replied, imploring them to see sense. "As long as Daphne's body is alive and we keep these horses from being killed, Vraal cannot touch him, or us."

"You truly believe that the vampyre will hold true to his word?" said Percival, looking unconvinced. "It seems a bit...trivial, after all. They're just horses."

Merlin nodded solemnly. "I do." He handed Rapier's reins to Arthur, who accepted them slowly but surely. "And take the staff of necromancy. Even if you need magic to transfer Gwen's soul to her body again, in which case you'll have to wait for Bain anyway, then at least we tried to save time." He took Noble's reins confidently, nodding. "We will follow as fast as we can."

Two minutes later, Arthur was mounted and holding Daphne's body before him to keep her in place. He looked down at his servant, who steadied Rapier as she skipped excitedly. "You are a wonder, Merlin," he said. "I don't think I'll ever truly understand you."

The warlock said nothing, waiting for a witty punchline to crush the flicker of pride and pleasure that blossomed from the vague compliment. It never came.

"It's five days ride to Camelot," declared Leon, opposite of Merlin. "Four days hard." The knight nodded briskly. "God's speed."

"Good luck," Elyan added. "For both your sakes."

Leon stepped back with everyone else. "Go, sire!"

Rapier squealed as she shot forward, ears flat, from the stables. People scattered with cries of alarm from the bolting horse's path. Arthur never looked back.

When the king had vanished, the others prepared themselves quickly. Merlin led Noble out into the open, waiting impatiently for his companions. The tall stallion nudged him gently, gazing at him with large, intelligent brown eyes. The servant combed the roan's forelock with his fingers.

"Let's go home," he said.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

The moon was out. Arthur rode through the night.

He was not foolish, of course, and walked Rapier over half the time, but he kept her going even when instinct told him to stop. He had paused every four hours to let the beast drink, and of course didn't force her to a gallop the rest; it was just his anxiety. He wanted to get Gwenevere's soul to her body as fast as possible, for what if Merlin was right? What if time was against him? Against his lover? Gaius had said that her body functioned, if not properly, then adequately for her to survive, but how long does that last? How long were they gone? More accurately, how long had it been since Vraal stole her soul? About three weeks. That's a long time. Too long?

Questions, questions, questions. The sheer number of them nudged Rapier back into a canter. The beast did not complain, which made Arthur feel all the more guilty.

_I'm sorry_, he thought as they rounded another bend and saw a fresh, unbroken stretch. _I'm sorry, but this is important. We'll sleep tomorrow._

True to his word, as dusk finally fell the next evening, Arthur pulled the exhausted horse off the road, out of sight of unwelcome prowlers, and tended to both her and Daphne's body. The impassive woman ate mechanically while Arthur started a small fire and brushed Rapier down. As he did so, he planned the next day's ride.

_If we push hard_, he thought, _we may be able to reach Camelot by nightfall. But I risk running Rapier to the ground, so I'll slow and travel through dusk. It would be redundant to kill the beast before we get home, for I'll be slowed immeasurably having to carry Daphne's body...Blast, I can't sit still!_ Restless, the king paced, letting Rapier graze. He sighed.

"It will be what it will be," he said, patting the horse on the neck. She rumbled deep in her chest, concurring.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

Merlin had an epiphany just as Soltier vanished around the bend.

"_Wait!_" he roared, pulling Noble to a skidding halt. The others yanked on the reins, their horses squealing in alarm as they kicked dust into a blinding cloud.

"Uch, what _is_ it?" Leon demanded impatiently. "We can't waste time!"

"Trust me, it's not a waste of time," Merlin replied excitedly. "This way!"

He cantered about a hundred yards before slowing and scanning the side of the road, studying the foliage with a critical eye.

"We don't need holly, Merlin," said Bain in exasperation. "You said yourself, Vraal—"

"I'm not looking for _holly_," the warlock interrupted impatiently, dismounting. "No, not that at all..."

"What are you going on about, Merlin? What—?" Gwaine suddenly stiffened, grimacing. "Blimey, what's that _smell?_"

The others inhaled deeply, and gagged. "Damn, smells like—"

"Death," said Merlin, and headed into the trees.

Gwaine frowned, turning to Elyan. "I think that out-of-body experience rattled his brain – Merlin thinks he's a vulture now."

They followed regardless, covering their faces with their sleeves and trying to breathe through their mouths.

"What is this nonsense, young man?" Bain demanded. "Why are you leading us here?"

"You lost the jacket I was wearing when Vraal attacked me that first night," called the servant over his shoulder, "and so you lost his scent. You need a new one."

"Obviously. But I think we could wait and let Vraal come to us once—"

"Why give him the upper hand? Trust me, a vampyre will _always_ have the upper hand if he comes to you."

"Since when are you an expert on vampyres?"

"Since I had been attacked three times by one, I understand them well enough to know _that!_"

They had stopped in a small glade. The charred remains of a week-old fire pit marked the centre, but that was not what caught the companions' attention. Merlin was standing near the mutilated corpse of a young woman. Two more bodies lay further off, swarming with flies.

"This is Shegor. She is..._was_, a horse thief. That's Tom, and that's Gregory, way over there." He pointed. "He's the one who beat me black and blue. But Shegor's who we want."

"We want the corpse of a horse thief?" wondered Elyan, gagging at the stench. Merlin rolled his eyes.

"_No_, we want her clothes."

"Okay, now you're _really_ starting to freak me out."

"Wait," said Gwaine, frowning. "Didn't you say that you outran these thieves?"

"And when was the third time that you were attacked by Vraal?" asked Percival suddenly. "There was that first night when he stole the necklace, then that time when he tried to kill the horses..." He waited expectantly.

Merlin sighed. "I...didn't escape the horse thieves as I had told you. Not exactly..." He refused to meet anyone's eye. "I...Vraal found me that night."

Gwaine stepped forward, the usual gleam in his tone gone. "Why did you lie to us? What difference would it have made?"

"I didn't want you to worry. I knew Vraal wasn't going to attack us and I didn't want to slow everyone down out of fear that he was hiding just around the corner." The servant shrugged. "It's how I realized that Vraal wasn't going to harm us until the horses were dead or Daphne was killed, for which he would be free of his oath." Now he straightened defiantly. "It doesn't matter now. We have to be ready for him, and that means knowing where he is at all times."

Bain nodded in understanding. "Vraal killed this Shegor. His scent is on her clothes."

"Exactly," Merlin replied. "We could have used mine, but I think we left them in Riverstone before heading into Wraith Marsh. They'd be long gone now."

Leon fingered his chin. "So, in other words...Merlin has had two brilliant ideas in the span of an hour? That's incredible!"

The knights laughed at the servant's flat yet exasperated expression. Then he couldn't help but crack a smile anyway.

* * *

**See? There was an actual _point_ to that Merlin!Whump way back when (Actually, I didn't plan that x3 It just sort of worked itself out).**

**By the way, Soltier doesn't exist in the show or real life. It was just a name I'd made up for a town in a different story...Cookies for anyone who knows which story that is! :D (For encouragement, they're cranberry-white chocolate chip cookies. Mmmmm c: )**


	28. Not Over Yet

~28~ Not Over Yet

They were all saddle-sore nearly to the point of it being unbearable, but no one complained. Three days and they had closed over half the distance, with, of course, no sight or sign of the king. They wondered if Arthur had made it to Camelot safely.

"I don't care if it's practical or not," Elyan was saying as they settled for the evening. "I say we reach Camelot tomorrow, even if we have to ride through the night. Agreed?"

"Agreed," all replied in sync.

* * *

It was practically a race through the city and then across the drawbridge to the citadel. The companions wasted no time in throwing themselves from their saddles and charging up the steps to the main hall, which glowed white in the moonlight. They startled the guards, who let them through upon recognition, and made immediately for the royal chambers.

Obviously, they couldn't all squeeze through the door at once, but they tried. It caused quite the kerfuffle. Inside, Arthur, sitting calmly at the table with a feather quill poised over yellowed parchment, watched impassively as they disentangled themselves. Finally, they managed to pull themselves together and retain the last of their dignities.

Silence. A black drop of ink spattered on Arthur's paper, ruining the otherwise neat script, as the companions stared back at the king in anticipation. More silence.

"...Well?" asked Arthur, raising an eyebrow.

The knights glanced at each other, at a loss. Bain studied the ravishing room curiously and Merlin turned a light red.

"_Well_, where's Gwenevere?" demanded Gwaine, lifting his shaking hands.

"Ah," said Arthur, nodding. He placed the quill down. "That."

"Yeah, _that_."

The king stood, casually pushing his chair back and coming out from behind the table. He strode solemnly to the fire, which flickered playfully in the hearth, standing between the twin winged armchairs that sat before it. There, he paused.

"Arthur?" Merlin stepped forward.

The king glanced back at them, half of his features blazing orange in the firelight, and they saw that he was grinning. He looked down at one of the chairs and offered his hand. "M'lady?"

Gwenevere had barely shown herself before Elyan rushed forward to embrace her, weeping openly. The others were not far behind.

"Arthur told me everything," the queen was saying, kissing them all on the cheek, her own eyes glistening with tears that itched to fall. "Thank you, thank you all _so_ much..."

Merlin managed to hug her twice before Arthur pulled him aside. The servant could hear the emotion in his voice as he said, "I don't know how it worked, but it did. Daphne's body seemed to _want_ to give Gwen her soul back; she took the staff of necromancy, touched Gwen's hand, and that was it."

"That's all?"

"I can't pretend to understand it, nor expect you to try. All I know is that it's over."

"And Daphne?"

Arthur shook his head. "Her soul is...gone. Her body is dead." He led Merlin further back from the fire and reached behind the wardrobe. His hand emerged holding the skull-crowned staff, its eyes no longer glowing. He passed it to his servant. "Take this. Take it out, destroy it. I don't care how, just get rid of it."

Merlin accepted the staff and turned to leave. Before he did, he came back with _Excalibur_, tucked safely in its scabbard. "You...want it back?"

Arthur glared at it. "No. Do what you will of it. I cannot think to bear a magical sword if I don't know if I can trust it. I'll use my old one."

Merlin paused before he exited the chambers. _I have to get him to trust it again_, he thought grimly, and departed.

* * *

Merlin had only turned down two corridors before he realized that he had a follower.

"Thought you might want the company," said Gwaine, brilliant teeth flashing.

"One is the loneliest number," the warlock replied cheerfully as the knight fell in step with him. A pair of guards turned the corner and marched towards them. Merlin made sure that the staff was completely covered by the table sheet before continuing on. "I have to destroy it," he explained to Gwaine once the guards were out of earshot. "We have to go where no one can hear."

"Hear?"

Merlin shrugged. "It's a magical object: I highly doubt that it will comply to being destroyed."

"The woods, then?"

"Not with Vraal out there. I have a better plan."

* * *

"HELLO!" _Hello...ello...oh..._

Silence.

Gwaine grinned. "I love echoes."

Merlin looked out over the vast cavern, glowing blue and silver from cave openings at the far end. Below and a thousand paces away lay a glistening lake. Right in front of his vantage point sat a large rock mound, where the Great Dragon, Kilgharrah, once perched to give council when the warlock asked of him.

"This is where they kept the giant lizard, eh?" asked Gwaine, looking around curiously. "Wish I could have seen the beast myself."

"This should be isolated enough," Merlin said quickly, eager to change the subject. He unravelled the staff and placed it on the lip of the ledge before drawing _Excalibur_.

Gwaine looked puzzled. "Why don't you just snap it in two and be done with it?"

"We've seen what _Excalibur_ can do. Let's just not take chances." The warlock turned to where the staff sat prone, seemingly innocent. A harmless stick.

"Wait, Merlin?"

The servant paused.

"Let me hold it." Gwaine stepped forward and crouched, lifting one end of the staff so that it rested on his knee. "Do it."

Without any long, drawn-out, dramatic hesitations, Merlin swung down with the legendary sword, onto the staff. The aged wood shattered from the middle out, the loud _crack_ echoing about the cavern. But that wasn't the only sound. Both he and Gwaine hastily retreated as the mournful howls of forgotten souls filled the cave like a deathly choir, a silver curl of smoke vanishing as it seeped from the shattered staff. Finally, silence.

"Ssspooky," said Gwaine slowly.

Merlin strode forward and took each solid half. He threw them, hard as he could, out into the abyss and kicked the remaining shards over the edge. It was done.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

Gwen said she didn't remember anything. Merlin was bringing food to her and Arthur when he asked her, and she claimed only a black void filled her memory.

"I remember being really sad, but I don't know why," she said softly. "That's all."

She was very weak from inactivity, even though her body ate to keep itself alive. The question on everyone's mind, of course, was if the baby had survived. It was too soon to tell.

"It'll be all right," Merlin assured, giving Gwen a warm smile. "I'm sure of it." He still, however, didn't meet Arthur's eye. After all, he had a hand, a magical hand, in the attempts to save the infant...

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

"You're going out _alone?_"

The knights were standing in the courtyard when Merlin and Arthur joined them and heard the incredulous question. Bain, faithful mule tacked and prepared for travel, nodded with a boisterous grin.

"I am a man of my trade," the bard said cheerfully, tipping his hat. "I said that I will go after Vraal on my own, and I mean to keep my word. Don't look so sceptical, good sir! It's rather discouraging, I must say."

"I suppose we can't make you change your mind," said Arthur formally, coming to a smart halt before the shorter man. "It would be a waste of time to say that if you wait another day or two, we would come with you." He waited expectantly.

Bain bowed deeply, his nose nearly brushing the ground. "Indeed it would, your majesty. I hunt better alone; they tend to not see me coming." The gleeful twinkle in the man's eye that they had all seen before trekking into Wraith Marsh had returned, and his enthusiasm spread like the pox. "All I need is my teeth and old Clarence, here, my lord. And my lute, of course."

Arthur frowned, but then couldn't help but let a grin split his sombre face. He reached into his pocket. "As promised, full pay, good man." In his hand sat a fat pouch of coins. He raised his eyebrows when the bard shook his head.

"The adventure was payment enough, sire. Besides, you hired me to hunt down a vampyre, a deed I have yet to complete." He smiled maliciously. "When I return with Vraal's head, then we'll reconsider the bacon." Without further ado, Bain mounted the saddle and nudged the watery-eyed beast into a trot. It brayed loud enough to turn more than a few heads as it clopped across the drawbridge and vanished from sight.

"What a _strange_ little man," Leon muttered.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

That wasn't the last of it. Not at all. Normally, after such adventures, there was a span of restlessness, or perhaps a temporary spurt of chronic fatigue. An occasional nightmare or two, and that was it...until the next excitement. Yet Arthur watched with growing concern as his servant kept his back to walls, never travelled alone, jumped at small sounds and even checked behind doors before entering a room when he thought no one was watching.

The king had asked Gaius about it, but the old man said that it was normal.

"He will be fine in a matter of days, sire," he'd replied as they remained distant from the person in question. Arthur was not convinced, and by Gaius's stretched voice, neither was he.

In any case, that was over a week ago. Merlin feigned good cheer when in public, where he was most comfortable anyway, but even now, he refused to go into dark places and constantly glanced over his shoulder.

What Arthur didn't know, however, was the nightmares his servant was suffering.

**Φ**

_Where is everyone?_

_Merlin ran through the hollow halls of Camelot, crying out for someone, anyone, but only ghostly echoes responded. And everywhere, no matter where he turned, the slicing of blades seemed to be just behind him, hidden in darkness and waiting to slaughter him._

No, gods, no! Where is everybody? Arthur! Gaius! Percival! Anyone?

_The blades sounded closer, accompanied by a black chuckle._

_A shadow flitted in the corner of his vision, but when Merlin turned to look, he only saw an empty corridor, glowing an eery red._

Gwaine! Elyan? Where are you?

_The words felt like sludge in his mouth. He doubted he even voiced them at all._

"_I am coming for you..."_

Who said that?

_A clear hiss, like a blade on whetstone, sounded right in his ear, but he kept running. Every night he'd been doing this, running through the castle in search of those who were gone. But he had to find them. He had to! And he had to outrun those snickering knives before they cut him up to rat fodder._

They're here, I know it! Arthur! Gwaine! Help me!

"_'Arthur, Gwaine, help me!'" The scornful laughter returned, mocking him cruelly._

Shut up!

_Merlin sprinted away, finding himself heading for the council chambers. Maybe Arthur barricaded himself inside? He flew around the corner into yet another hallway glowing red, haunting and inscrutable. In moments, a great pair of doors were before him. He bashed at them with a balled fist._

Let me in! Arthur!

_The knives sounded even closer now. He dared not glance over his shoulder._

Come on, come on, open up!

_They opened. Merlin threw himself inside and slammed the doors closed behind him, throwing down the cross board to bar them shut. His reward, silence._

_He turned slowly. The chambers were empty. It must have been night outside, for a spectral blue light was seeping in through the windows from one end, painting irregular shapes on the floor. Merlin found himself mistrustful of the shadows in the corners and those cast by the rows of pillars along either side of the room._

_His breathing sounded really loud._

Arthur?

"_I'm not keeping it." The king stepped from the void of a column, eyes thrown into darkness. He was wearing a gleaming shirt of mail, a sword in his hand. "I'm not."_

_Merlin frowned, glancing from the blade to the glistening stain on Arthur's chest. _Are you hurt...? Damn, why can't I speak?

"_This is an abomination. I'm not keeping it," the king repeated, and raised the sword. It was _Excalibur_, flashing blue in the moonlight._

You have to keep it, Arthur_, Merlin tried to say. _You have to! It is your destiny! It will keep you safe_._

_Arthur was shaking his head as though he could hear his servant. "It is a magical weapon. My father wouldn't approve." With barely suppressed contempt, he threw _Excalibur_ away, and the blade slid towards Merlin, hissing against the cold floor._

Arthur_—_

_Even as the sword came to a stop, the rasping whisper of metal on stone did not cease. First there was only one, but then it was joined by a choir of slicing, dicing blades._

_Merlin blanched. _Arthur, we have to go_. The king ignored him, or didn't hear him. Either way, he just stood there, impassive, a stubborn glint in his eye._

"_I will never use it. Take it away."_

Pick it up! It will protect you!

"_Take it away, Merlin. I'm ordering you."_

But—

_Arthur opened his mouth angrily, but instead of bellowing an infuriated command, his face contorted into one of agony, a bloody blade seeming to grow out from the centre of his chest. Merlin tried to scream as the weapon retracted and Arthur fell to his knees, hands scrabbling at the wound uselessly._

_Excalibur! _Pick up_ Excalibur!_

_His words were pointless noises in his head. He tried to hasten forward, to pick up the sword and give it to Arthur, but he was frozen to the spot._

"_I am coming for you..."_

_The king slumped to the floor, twitching, blood pooling, but Merlin could not see the wielder of the murderous blade. There was only a dark shadow, a living shadow._

"_Daphne is dead."_

Arthur, help me!

_The shadow approached him, stepping into a ray of moonlight. Silver disks flashed where its eyes should be. It stepped over the now prone form of the king, stretching what appeared to be clawed hands forward. Merlin panicked, struggling against nothing to get away. Vraal laughed cruelly._

"_I am coming for you!"_

_A blinding pain exploded across Merlin's neck—_

**Φ**

He gasped awake, arms outstretched, sweat pouring from his whole body, his sheets tangled about him as though seeking to restrain him. But for his heavy breathing, there was silence in his small room, dawn seeping in through the window to cast a light glow on the next wall.

Merlin ran a hand down his face, wiping the sweat away. _I have to convince Arthur to take up_ Excalibur _once more_, he thought in distress, _if I ever want to sleep properly again._


	29. Return of the Night Stalker

~29~ Return of the Night Stalker

Merlin finished changing the sheets of the royal bed, and with them, completed the last of his chores. Hands on hips, he scanned the cushions with satisfaction. He could relax for the rest of the day, if he wished. He could take Rapier out for a ride, or simply lounge in the castle grounds.

He glanced out the window, which was wide open to let in the evening breeze, not that he remembered opening it. It was nice all the same. There were a few hours left before the sun lay to rest, so he decided what he'll do – ride. A nice ride with no destination, no plan, no troubles.

He sighed at the thought. It sounded so beautiful, so blissful, if only it could happen. It _would_ happen, if Vraal hadn't chosen that day to come.

The warlock tried to turn around at the hungry, anticipative hiss that sounded just behind him, but he didn't have time to utter any magic when the vampyre lunged.

Vraal's bared teeth were buried in his throat before the pair had even hit the floor. It hurt, like a score of bees had all chosen to sting Merlin's neck at the same time. The warlock fought silently to no avail; he would have had better luck pushing a mountain onto its side. The vampyre squeezed his upper arms in an iron grasp and pinned his shoulders to the ground. His knee was on the warlock's hip, preventing him from kicking and squirming. Every time Merlin frantically reached for magic, it slipped away like a rebellious eel, leaving him helpless. Caught in the gaze of the snake, just like before.

There was a peculiar sensation in his neck where blood was pulled the wrong way, where Vraal ravenously drained him of life. At first, Merlin panicked, but as nearly a minute passed, he finally stopped struggling, and a soothing tranquillity commandeered his body. His hands, once clawing at Vraal's arms to fight him off, fell limply to the floor. His throat stopped trying to scream for help and his chest relaxed in submission. As though simply falling asleep, his eyes closed, and he yielded to his fate.

Vraal continued to feed, savouring every moment of his long-sought triumph. Cold tingles spread out through Merlin's limbs, leaving him shivering and numb. But he couldn't do anything about it. Not anymore. It was too late for him. Even now, his vision darkened and his heartbeat faded into the netherworld.

Spontaneously, inexplicably, Vraal withdrew, and Merlin was just barely able to see that all of his teeth were over an inch long, needle-like and dripping blood. The assassin's features were no longer human, but more elongated, with pointed ears and scaly skin.

The vampyre shuddered in delight and licked his lips with a dark tongue, smiling demonically at his prey. Merlin still had the strength to groan in disgust as Vraal leaned down and casually lapped up the blood oozing from the punctures in his throat. It felt like a fish tail being pulled across his flesh.

It didn't take the ears of a vampyre to hear the door open and the person step into the room.

"Merlin? You in here?"

Hidden from the door's view by the bed, all Merlin was able to do was give a gurgling cough before Vraal smothered him with a clawed hand. He grunted as the assassin squeezed his jaw cruelly and pushed down, as though trying to shove his head through the floor.

"...Merlin?"

The warlock continued to struggle soundlessly even as Vraal crushed his mouth in warning, too weak to move his arms or legs.

_Here, clotpole!_ Merlin raged inwardly. _Here!_

The door creaked closed, and the servant moaned pitifully in despair. He was unheard. Arthur was gone.

Vraal hissed, but of relief, victory, or anguished rage, Merlin couldn't tell. He only saw the vampyre lunge to bite him again. It hurt even more than before. As though sating a furious revenge, the assassin sank his needle teeth deeper and deeper into Merlin's neck, hissing like a cat but relishing the gush of hot blood in his gullet.

This time, the warlock was able to scream in agony.

Arthur rushed around the bed.

* * *

"_No!_"

Vraal shrieked as a sword ripped down his back, spattering black blood everywhere. He released the limp servant and stood, clawing uselessly at his spine like he was trying to seal the wound.

Arthur thrust the blade at the vampyre's belly, but Vraal's inhuman reflexes saved him despite his injury. He dodged to the left, spitting angrily at the king and becoming more and more demonic-looking with every moment.

Before Arthur could turn his sword to swing again, Vraal launched forward and knocked the Pendragon off-balance. Then, it was to his utmost surprise when the vampyre grabbed him by the front collar and threw him as though he were not but a bale of hay. Pain exploded across his spine as he crashed onto the dark oak table with all its contents, sliding along it before falling to the floor, stunned.

Vraal came after him, but before he could reach the king, Arthur log-rolled beneath the table and emerged from the other side in a crouch, adrenaline lending him strength. With a gleeful growl, Vraal leaped with both feet onto the table. Arthur's blade flashed, slicing at the creature with the rage of thunderstorms, but he was too slow; the vampyre had already jumped high enough to reach the rafters above. There, he pulled himself up, Arthur watching his every move.

"Guards!" he roared. "_Guards!_"

_Where are they, damn them?_

Vraal chose that moment to 'accidentally' knock two red-clothed forms from the rafters. As they fell limply to the floor, Arthur refused to gasp when he realized that they were two twisted corpses of the Royal Guard. Grotesque black and purple bruises splotched their throats. Vraal had snapped their necks.

_So they wouldn't bleed and give him away_.

Arthur kept his eyes locked on the creature balancing as gracefully as a cat on the wooden beams above. The guttural chuckle sent shivers down the king's spine and up again. His palms sweated, but he dared not release the hilt of his sword for even a second to dry them.

"I'm never sure of how to make of you humans," Vraal snickered, leering down at Arthur, canines pricking his lower lip. His face was human again. The king simply glared, refusing to negotiate. "Sometimes brave and stupid, but mostly cowardly and smart. You should have heard your little friend here. Crying and whimpering like a squabbling brat—"

"_Shut up!_"

The vampyre's eyebrow twitched. "Ooh, hit a nerve, did I?" His cloak of alien material bellowing around him, Vraal dropped from the rafters and landed smoothly on his feet, looking as though he had merely descended a single step. From his side, he silently drew an elongated S-shaped sword. The blade was faintly blue, with a black hilt and sapphire pommel. Pretty, but could he use it?

Arthur had no doubt that he could. Probably better than he by tenfold.

Taking a deep breath, the king surrendered himself to the calm void he always entered when facing such opponents. He banished all emotion and focused solely on his sword and the vampyre. Because of this, he was able to see the slight shift in Vraal's stance as he went to make the first move, and so lifted his own weapon in anticipation for the strike. Blue and silver blades clashed together in a shower of sparks before dancing away and flying at each other again and again.

Arthur's arm rang with every blow, forcing him to fall back step by step, but he managed to avoid being struck, much to the vampyre's amused surprise. Vraal was as graceful as a dancer, more deadly than a viper. Had he been human, his extravagant flourishes and redundant twists would have slowed him down and gotten him killed; as it was, he had the speed and strength to complete such flamboyant manoeuvres and still put the king on the retreat.

As he took yet another step back, Arthur's ankle brushed against the leg of something, either a table or chair he wasn't sure. He ducked beneath a horizontal swing of the S-shaped blade, reaching behind himself as he did so and grasping something cold and hard. Without pausing to think, he lunged forward and smashed the small vase in Vraal's face. The glass shattered in an explosion of water and flowers, cutting his hand, not to mention the vampyre's cheeks, but Vraal seemed not to be fazed, only annoyed.

Dodging around the next blow, the creature waited a split second for Arthur's blade to reach the opportune place before swinging his own sword, bringing it down on the king's. Arthur realized his mistake too late as his weapon's edge thudded into the side table, now useless because he would have no time to tug it out before being impaled—

He didn't even have the time to release it.

Vraal's free hand chopped down on the king's arm, and his wrist shattered. He opened his mouth to scream but was silenced as the vampyre back-handed him. Arthur's lips sliced open on his teeth, blood spurting from his nose, and he was sent staggering back in blind pain. Before he could recover, Vraal spun, leg coming up in a roundabout kick that landed in the middle of Arthur's chest.

He wasn't sure if the kick or smashing into the wardrobe behind him hurt more. His skull rang as it banged against the wood, and he was having trouble breathing.

Though his vision crossed, he was able to see Vraal approach, his sword raised for a killing stab, and therefore throw himself to the side. The vampyre hissed with frustration as his sword thrust into the wardrobe and stayed there. He tugged on the hilt to free it, but Arthur was already wedging his uninjured hand behind the cabinet and pulling for all he was worth. A deep ache put a strain on his left pectoral, but he laboured on, and in seconds the wardrobe groaned in distress as it toppled forward.

Vraal snarled and jumped clear, having no choice but to abandon his sword. Arthur's victory was short-lived, however, and he had to dodge away from the vampyre's slashing claws before they gutted him like a hare.

There was a chain mace on a table to his left and behind him, Arthur knew, hastily left after the day's training session, and he rushed back towards it, not turning away from Vraal. But his foe was faster, and before he could say ouch, he was grappled and thrown again as easily as a toy. A flurry of papers exploded about the king as he crashed onto the desk near the windows. They fluttered gently to the ground around him, but he just stayed there, too stunned, too pained, to move.

His eyes opened a slit to see Vraal approaching on catlike feet, unnatural in their silence.

"So weak, so _pathetic_," the vampyre leered, kneeling beside the king. Arthur choked as Vraal latched a clammy, unyielding hand around his throat and started to drag him upright. His left hand brushed against something lean and cold, and his fist automatically curled around it before thrusting it into Vraal's wrist. It was a letter opener. The vampyre shrieked and released him, grasping at the sharp metal rod in his arm that gushed dark blood.

Knees weak, Arthur slumped back to the floor, cradling his shattered wrist to his chest, teeth gritted against the pain. In the three seconds of rest he had, he sat there, propped up on his uninjured arm as he saw Merlin lying motionless near the bed, not four strides away. There was no time to even see if he was breathing before Vraal's fist came down, hard, near his temple. Arthur had to fight to retain consciousness. He feebly attempted to parry the next blow with his left hand, but he mostly succeeded in hitting himself as his strength was insufficient to stop the punch from coming.

Before Vraal could swing again, Arthur threw his weight forward, straight into the vampyre, knocking him off-balance. He scrambled to his feet and rushed for the mace again, lying on a table with his armour. If he could get that, he had a chance.

Vraal hissed in warning just as Arthur's fist closed about the handle and started to swing around. The spiked ball whistled over the ducking vampyre's head, but there was no time for a second attempt before Vraal grappled his wrist and other arm in steel grips. He pushed the king back against the wall, pinning him despite his frantic squirming. Arthur kicked Vraal in the knee, and it would have seriously maimed him had he been human. The vampyre just took it as he would a kick from a child.

There they remained. Arthur glowered into the gleeful, invigorated gaze of his enemy, teeth gritted as he gasped for breath. Vraal simply smiled, demonic fangs stained red with blood.

_Merlin's blood_, the king thought with despair, but his anger seemed only to amuse the vampyre vaguely, as though Arthur had said something mildly funny.

Vraal chuckled. "Oh, I expected _so_ much more from you," he said with a light shake of his head. "You can defeat an ancient daemon yet you cannot defeat me. How tragic."

Arthur chose that moment to twist his left arm and spring his wrist free, but Vraal merely bunched his fist and drove it into the king's stomach, faster than a striking cobra. Arthur fell to his knees, gasping like a landed fish, his broken, swelling wrist cradled to his belly. Vraal kicked the dropped mace away contemptuously and knelt by the king's side as he battled for air.

"You fight," the vampyre whispered like he would to a sleeping child, "but you will lose. You will always lose. You cannot defeat that which is superior. And I _am_ superior, Arthur Pendragon. You, you are nothing, _nothing_ to me."

"Go to...hell," Arthur gasped, teeth bared. He refused to yield. He shuddered as Vraal snickered again.

"Oh, I won't. I never will. Know why? Because I'm immortal. You know how we remain immortal, yes?" Vraal's fists bunched around Arthur's collar and dragged him upright. He was grinning, all his teeth flashing dangerously. "We take in that which makes us stronger."

Arthur watched in horror as the fangs unsheathed themselves, then as Vraal's jaws opened wide—

"_Bastard!_"

Vraal threw himself sideways, dragging the king with him and crashing to the floor. _Excalibur_ chopped through the space they no longer occupied, flashing brilliantly in the western sun.

"No, Gwenevere!" Arthur tried to grapple with the vampyre before he made to jump up and lunge for Gwen, but was too slow. Vraal slashed his claws at the queen, and she let loose a small cry. Yet she did not flee. She held _Excalibur_ before her like a shield, knowing how to but was terrified to do so.

"Pretty thing," Vraal praised mockingly, of the sword or of her Arthur wasn't sure. Nor, frankly, did he care.

Despite the pain, he was up and charging the monster from behind before he could attack Gwen again, but Vraal heard him coming. The vampyre spun around just in time to dig his claws into Arthur's arms, his momentum still knocking them both to the floor. Vraal rolled over him and pinned him down on his back.

"I've had enough of you!" the creature snarled, squeezing the king's shoulder with one hand and grasping his hair in the other. He pulled to the sides, baring Arthur's neck.

The king's scream was cut off as terror took hold, terror in the form of a ravenous monster. He could not explain the experience, for his mind could not comprehend it. He vaguely remembered a intolerable pain in his throat where Vraal tore at his flesh greedily, a hot sensation that could only be blood oozing everywhere—down his neck, along his shoulder, across his chest—all pooling on the floor...

Then, the flash of a golden blade.

Vraal shrieked and fell away, squirming, a hand clasping the smoking wound on his shoulder. Instinct would not let Arthur rest and he sat up, hand to his throat, to watch the vampyre retreat backwards on his rear end. He was hissing defensively and glowering at _Excalibur_, which remained tight in Gwenevere's hands.

"Don't you touch him again!" the queen commanded, her voice deep and intimidating. A fire blazed in her eyes.

Vraal sneered. "You don't have the nerve to kill me, wench."

As lame as the retort sounded, Arthur boiled. This was the creature who had stolen into the castle, attacked Merlin, and kidnapped Gwen's very soul. This was the creature who later held Merlin hostage and nearly killed him in more ways than one. This was the creature who slaughtered innocent people in Riverstone, just for fun.

This was the creature who had endangered the unborn heir to the throne of Camelot.

Arthur stood, balled fists shaking with mounting rage. He glared poisoned daggers when the vampyre straightened as well, and was secretly pleased to see Vraal's eyebrow jerk. The king opened his mouth to speak, but then noticed the smoke steaming gently from the monster's wound. _What the hell?_

It was _Excalibur_ in Gwen's hands, a sword he had recently found out could do wonders. It had repelled a daemon when nothing else could touch it. Now it was affecting Vraal in a way that was perplexing...but moralizing.

Vraal lunged for Gwenevere, but just as quickly retreated when the queen slashed the legendary blade at him. He was wary, now; he knew he was at the disadvantage at last. He muttered foul language, keeping Gwen and _Excalibur_ at bay, indigo eyes glancing at the sword cautiously. His bloodied canines flashed as he growled.

_He knows_, Arthur thought. _He knows he can't win this now. One more touch of the sword and it could __cripple him fatally. He can barely move his arm!_

Suddenly, the vampyre tensed, and was flying for the king less than a heartbeat later. "DIE!"

Arthur ducked. Gwen swung. Vraal howled and fell away, pulling himself off of _Excalibur_'s point. He retreated, clutching at a second smouldering wound in his chest.

"This isn't over!" he snarled. "You will not live to see the next moon!" He whirled around and ran for the open window.

"Gwenevere!" Arthur took _Excalibur_ in his left hand, turned, and threw. Time seemed to slow as the blade spun, end over end, out into the open after the leaping vampyre.

There was a single shout of pain and alarm, and then nothing. Both the king and the queen were left staring out into sky.

It took several moments for Arthur's mind to catch up with what his eyes had claimed to see. Breathing heavily, he staggered to the window, having to hike over the ruined desk to do so, and looked down into the courtyard below. A small crowd was gathering around a black-cloaked figure lying face-down on the flagstones, a spatter of dark blood all around it. The golden gleam of _Excalibur_ stuck out of its back like a lonely sentinel.

Vraal was dead.

"A master who boasts...is a master prone to failure," Arthur gasped. He sagged, pulling his head back before the people below could glance up and get a good look at him. All at once, he realized how much pain he was in, and grunted as Gwen rushed over and embraced him, weeping softly.

"It's all right," he whispered, holding her with his uninjured arm. "It's over."

The only sounds to be heard was Arthur's laboured, agonized breathing, Gwen's gentle sobs, and Merlin's choking gurgles.

The king pulled away from his wife and staggered over to the bed. He fell to his knees by the ashen servant in a daze, ignoring his own pain. Merlin was grasping feebly at the torn gash in his neck, an alarming amount of blood seeping from between his fingers. Gently but firmly removing the servant's palm, Arthur felt nausea rise at the sight of the wound. He clasped his own hand over the bite to staunch the flow, already yelling, "Gwenevere, get Gaius! Hurry!"

* * *

**Sorry. I just had to have this one last cliffie. *Hides***

**Seems like ****_Excalibur_**** was a real hero in this one. Yaaay x3**


	30. All Will be Well

**Favs: 31, Alerts: 49, Reviews: 84 (record! :D)**

**Damn. Guess this is it. Six months, thirty chapters and lots and lots of words...I'm actually struggling to think of something to say. *Sniffs* ...****_What?!_**** I ain't crying! There's ****_onions_**** everywhere. Sheesh! Talk about jumping to conclusions.**

**But really, mates, I don't know what to say. Just...thank you. For everything. **

_**Arrivederci, amici.**_

* * *

~30~ All Will be Well

Arthur felt feverish. He struggled to say awake as Gaius gave him something for the pain, set his wrist and cleaned the blood from his flesh wounds, not to mention bind the bite on his neck. The physician had told him it was okay to sleep now, but Arthur didn't want to. He wanted, needed, to see his servant.

Merlin had curled into a ball beneath the sheets, shaking like a leaf in a tempest. Beads of sweat tried to prove that he had been out in the rain. As Gaius removed the poultice from his neck, the raw, angry wound that was the vampyric bite was revealed in all its grotesqueness, the source of Merlin's pain.

Arthur stayed by the physician's side as he fixed a new application to the bite. More cheer would be found in a graveyard than in the king's features.

"Gaius?" he asked quietly, clearing his throat as his voice cracked. His own wounds were cared for, but it was clear that he had it easy compared to the servant. "Are...are people..._affected_ by bites like this?"

The aged physician turned to him, grim. "If you mean by the place of the bite and how much blood was taken, then I'm sorry to say I cannot know until he wakes up."

"He'll be fine, though, right? Because...he was bitten before, and ended up okay." Arthur glanced down at the raging wound, grimacing at the pussy fluids oozing from the festering marks. He rubbed fatigue from his eyes. "I mean...Can you tell how many times he was bitten?"

"By these punctures, at least twice." Gaius shook his head, mouth a thin line of distress. "As far as I am aware, you're either born a vampyre or you're not, so he shouldn't..._change_, if that's what your worried about. As for being affected, though..."

Arthur remained silent, staring sullenly at his harried friend with a sense of foreboding. What if Merlin woke up thirsting for blood? What if he suddenly had inhuman strength that he could not control and he hurt himself? What if he no longer recognized friend from food? Then the king realized what Gaius meant about being _affected_. Merlin may lose his memory, or his sense. Blood loss, even if staunched in time, could have devastating mental affects in the long term.

Arthur's teeth clicked as he gritted them together, suddenly angry. It was foolish of him to even _think_ that Vraal had been gone for good, that he would stay away from Camelot. Now, due to his laxity, his closest friend was in a critical condition. There was an arms race between the venom in Merlin's veins and the supply of mandrake root Gaius had left, meagre as it was now.

The taxed physician left Arthur alone with the servant, muttering something about checking to see if the herbalists in the city had acquired any more of the rare root. The supply that had been discovered on the endeavour through the Marshes was almost gone, now that both Arthur and his servant had used it.

The king remained there in the chambers, sometimes watching the birds out the window, or scanning the many, overflowing shelves of books and scrolls, or squinting into the bottles of cynical substances donning the work benches. Mostly, though, he remained by Merlin's side, hoping against odds that his friend would awaken in his own mind.

He was shaken from the depths of sleep by Gaius several hours later, and he rose, stiff and groaning, from the hard wooden chair by Merlin's bedside. The bruises on his back and shoulders protested angrily, his limbs stiff and uncooperative like sacks of sand. He eagerly looked to see if the servant had finally awoken, but his heart jolted to see that he was still prone, still fighting against the raging fever, still thrashing motionlessly in the cruel grasp of the deadly venom.

Rage boiled within him. _He knew something like this was going to happen_, he thought furiously. The knights had told him what had really occurred when Merlin was attacked by the horse thieves, how the vampyre had "rescued" before the bandits killed him and stole his horse. _He knew that Vraal would come for him – why him specifically is still strange – yet he still kept away from other people. The fool! The...the..._clotpole!

Gaius redressed the king's own bite wound, gave him more foul mandrake-root-concoction and told him to go get proper rest, and despite Arthur's feeble, fatigue-hindered resistance, he was aided back to his private rooms. He left a message with a passing servant saying that he would not be seeing Gwenevere that evening. He wanted to be alone.

* * *

For days it was like this. Once recovered enough, Arthur went about on his routine duties as king, limiting himself to only five minutes of his overwhelming schedule to visit Merlin. It was the same, day...

...after day...

...after day...

* * *

He'd forgotten to close the curtains himself the night prior again, as there was always someone else to do it for him, and so when Arthur rolled over and opened his eyes, they teared up against the morning brightness and he turned away, shutting them and grunting in annoyance. When he opened them again, he was faced with the most unexpected sight.

Standing at the edge of the bed, Merlin, pale-skinned and gaunt, grinned toothily at the king, revealing the twin canines stabbing down from his upper jaw.

Arthur yelped and tried to throw himself to the opposite side of the bed, but he overshot. His unbroken arm missed the mattress entirely and he fell, crashing to the ground with a dull _thud_ in a tangle of sheets. Before he hit the floor, however, Merlin was howling with laughter. Arthur automatically drew _Excalibur_ from the scabbard on the bedside table even as he rolled to his feet, eyes wide, palms sweating. And then he stared in puzzlement at the servant, but did not lower the sword or his guard.

Merlin heaved for breath between bursts of laughter. "Ha ha ha! The look on your face!" he gasped, holding his sides.

The king's brow furrowed. "What madness is this?" He stepped around the bed, keeping _Excalibur_, the weapon he now went nowhere without, between him and the creature impersonating his servant. "Who are you?"

Though he tried to stop, a bewildered expression on his pale features, Merlin couldn't help but release the occasional snicker. "What do you mean? Ha, ha ha! It's me!" The servant held out his arms to the side for emphasis, and as he did so, his left canine fell from his mouth and hit the floor.

Arthur glanced briefly at the fang-shaped piece of hardened clay on the ground, and then saw Merlin pull the second one off his normal, rounded tooth, grinning all the while.

"I was thinking about dipping them in red dye, but Gaius figured that that would have gone a bit far." He took his sleeve and brushed his cheek, wiping the white powder from his skin. "I suppose it was a wise choice: you look paler than I! Ha ha! Ha, ha...ha...heh heh...uuueh..." Merlin's face dropped. He retreated a step, all frivolity gone. "Wait, Arthur—" He yelped and dodged around king's swinging fist, then ducked beneath the hurled wine goblet and the water pitcher that followed as he fled the room at top speed.

"_MERLIN!_"

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

Several days had limped past since Vraal was killed, but Merlin was not calming down. He was a mouse in the lair of an adder, still flinching at little sounds and avoiding solitude at all costs. The spurt of childish glee he had expressed with his prank on Arthur was long since extinguished like a candle in the wind, and though he tried to shrug off the extremely uncharacteristic and hindering twist in his life, it was clear that Merlin was suffering.

It was making Arthur mental.

"He's_ dead, _you bumbling buffoon!" he roared as the servant glanced around the door before proceeding, a routine now. Merlin jumped a league and cowered, then sheepishly stared at his feet. Arthur seethed, glaring mercilessly at the other man. "You are being _ridiculous._ You aren't eating—Gaius told me. You aren't sleeping, that much is clear. When are you going to get over this?"

The servant slowly raised his darkened eyes, though they flinched and flickered when they saw the dangerous sparks aimed at him from the king's own. With that glare, it was a wonder Arthur didn't set the sun afire.

"Look at you. You sway on your feet like a sapling, you can't be alone without shaking, your eyes appear about to leave because of the bags they've packed beneath them. It's driving me crazy!"

It must have been that final comment that bit Merlin. He shrank, wringing his hands and shuffling his feet.

_Vraal's attack really got to him_, Arthur thought, soothing his enraged breathing with force. He could see the bandages on Merlin's throat where his neckerchief failed to conceal them. _He won't have at me with sharp words of his own. We need to get him out of this rut...But how? How does one stop being afraid of that which no longer exists?_

Gaius may know, but he would have said something by now. Bain, whose wide range of expertise exceeded even that of Geoffrey the Archivist, probably would be just as at a loss. The bard had returned to Camelot after following Vraal back to the castle, learned of Arthur's success and rejoiced.

* * *

_Two days ago..._

"_Where is he? _Where is he?_ Let me see him!"_

_The bard flew from the saddle of Clarence, his trusty mule, his hat blowing off his head and his feet barely hitting the ground before making their way for the front doors. Having heard of his coming, Arthur was already waiting for him._

"_Bain Beton Browsten, welcome back," the king greeted warmly._

"_Your majesty," the bard replied, bowing as low as he wanted because his hat had already fallen off and he needn't worry about it. "It's a pleasure to be back, sire!" His mule brayed and started to wander away. Bain seemed not to notice, and he merely straightened, grinning boisterously beneath his imperial moustache._

"_You want to see Vraal, I presume," said Arthur, and Bain nodded._

"_Twenty years I've been tracking him. To hear of his death...no, I must see his body for myself."_

_The king grimaced. "We had his body burned and the ashes scattered."_

_Bain frowned. "Then how do you know it was him? It could have been a look-alike, another vampyre in disguise, a wannabe, a—"_

"_Bain, Bain, it _was_ Vraal!" Arthur insisted, raising his hands to calm the rotund man._

"_You're ab-so-_lute_-ly sure?" the bard demanded, and he looked slightly reassured when the king nodded._

"_There was no mistaking."_

"_What happened?"_

_Arthur retold the horrid visit of the vampyre, explaining his attack on Merlin and then on the king. Bain was avid in seeing the marks left on Arthur's throat, and kept praising the late Vraal's sense of honour._

"_And now he's gone," the bard said quietly, and Arthur's expression grew grim as he nodded._

"_What will you do now?"_

_Bain sniffed, then reached behind his back to pull free the lute strapped there. He tuned it, strummed, then tuned again as Arthur winced._

"_I will continue my endeavours about the Five Kingdoms, and beyond," he said. "I will sing of the brave deeds of Arthur Pendragon, Vanquisher of Vraal D'Angeral..._

"The creature of the night, his hair of flames,  
Has long made the helpless his prey.  
Flitting as a shadow, silent as a whisper,  
From your hearths be foolish to stray.

Far have I roamed in search of this creature,  
Flanked by years and teeth of dragon,  
Yet it was not I who challenged the nightly wraith,  
But the great Lord Arthur Pendragon.

Oh, good king, you are most blessed,  
For you fought and did not flee.  
Your grace, your strength, your undying prowess,  
Makes me wish I were you, and you were me._"_

"_Okay, Bain, that's—" Arthur started._

"But oh, how your sword flashed and stabbed,  
How you fought with such vigour!  
How Vraal fell back in terror and fear,  
And...and..._"_

_Finally, the bard paused. "What rhymes with vigour?"_

_Arthur blinked. "Uh...Digger? Bigger?"_

"_Eh, I'll come back to that."_

"_No, it's quite alright. You need not—"_

"Swish! Clang! Your sword sang!  
Beating the beast to a pulp.  
You cut of his head, and claimed he was dead,  
And let his remains fall with a fulp!_"_

_Arthur grimaced. "Fulp?"_

_After reassuring the "bard" that he would listen for drunkards whistling the soon-to-be famous ballad, the king made Bain accept payment for his time, then had to spend some time helping him reacquire his wandering mule, the ever-trustful Clarence, before he departed from Camelot once more._

* * *

Arthur gritted his teeth as Merlin stubbornly refused to make eye contact or speak half a word. It was after several seconds of tense silence that the servant finally opened his mouth.

"You—" He coughed and cleared his throat. "You keep _Excalibur_ with you, now."

Arthur glanced down at the wondrous blade, in a scabbard at his side even though he was sitting and doing nothing but paperwork. "I do."

He nodded. "Good. That's good."

"What's this about, Merlin?" asked the king, waving the quill in his hand. He wrote with his left for now, his right wrist still in a cast. "You're acting very...well, to be perfectly honest, _odd_."

The servant raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you prefer the slinking and skittish tendencies?"

"_Nooo_," Arthur blurted, half rising from his seat. He sat back down, looking awkward.

Another prolonged silence.

"Erm, you needed me, sire?"

"...Oh, yeah. Those documents need to be delivered, if you would be so...inclined."

"Right away, sire." Merlin made to pick up the stack of scrolls as Arthur lowered his head to proceed with his writing. Just as he made for the door: "Merlin?"

The servant turned. Arthur chucked a goblet at him. With barely a flick of an eye, Merlin snatched the cup from the air, not even flinching.

"Good." The king ignored him then, and continued to write in silence.

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

It took time, it took patience, and it took perseverance, but Merlin gradually emerged from the pit created by Vraal's assault. As the bruising on his neck faded, so did the look of wary malaise in his eye. He was mostly left to deal with it himself, but others, including Arthur, acted behind the scenes. At first, they accompanied him wherever he went, acting normally, then, gradually, they abandoned him to walk places completely alone. Once he was able to control his fears of solitude, they began to startle him on purpose, not malevolently (most of the time), but by rushing around a corner or stepping in front of him when his mind had wandered. Merlin didn't like that, of course, but the knights were glad to see that it wasn't because he was genuinely scared of attack, but as anyone would when someone jumps out at them while they were daydreaming. After a month of this, Merlin had had enough.

"For gods' sake, _stop_ that!" he roared as Gwaine, laughing like a drunken crow, stepped free of the servant's closet where he had been hiding, waiting for the opportune moment. It'd come soon enough, with Merlin barely holding back a scream when the knight lunged out at him as he opened the door.

Even if the warlock didn't enjoy himself during the recuperation, Arthur and his men certainly had a few laughs.

"Wake up one day and find spiders crawling in your bed," Merlin was muttering to himself as Gwaine retold the closet story to Arthur, who was howling hilariously, clapping his hands. "Or _worms._"

Gwenevere seemed to be the only one with true sympathy. Even Gaius let the knights do as they pleased to "help" Merlin.

"If you ever need to talk about it," said the queen, unconsciously rubbing her swelling belly, "remember that I'm always here for you."

Merlin nodded his appreciation, knowing that he may never need to anyway. For weeks now, ever since he realized that Arthur kept _Excalibur_ with him at all times, his nightmares have dwindled and become nearly nonexistent. His recurrent one was gone entirely, the last of them having a different twist from the rest – Arthur had held onto _Excalibur_ when Merlin found him in the council chambers. He fought the living shadow and its whirring blades, and defeated it.

Speaking of _Excalibur_, from the day that the king fought Vraal to the death, he wondered aloud how the sword could have affected the vampyre so. Merlin kept his assumptions to himself. The blade was enchanted by dragon fire; such weapons were tools against the living dead, immortals. Vampyres were only immortal if they fed on human blood, and so were not completely invulnerable to normal blades, but, consequently, they were not instantly destroyed with one touch of _Excalibur _either. Vraal had been weakened by the touch, nothing more. Nevertheless, Merlin felt reassured by the sword's presence, for his own sake, but especially for Arthur's.

"Thank you, Gwen," he said, smiling widely, and was satisfied to see her smile back. For a moment, they were both servants again, young and compliant, befriended where their masters quarrelled like siblings. Then Gwenevere adjusted her intricate, lacy dress, and she was a queen again. Merlin looked away.

"The nursemaids say it's okay," she said, continuing as the warlock blinked inquiringly, "The baby. Whatever happened to me seems to have had no serious affects on it, if any." She smiled lightly, again unconsciously feeling her stomach.

Merlin nodded, appearing thoughtful and content. Gwen's body had gone through a lot, what with having her soul taken and her body, though it had fed itself, not in proper function. The chances of the baby making it had seemed thin to the warlock. As to not unsettle her, Merlin smiled graciously. After all, it was he who was sneaking discreet Healing poultices into her pillow every night. _Into_, not under. There have been too many incidences where a poultice has been discovered _under_ pillows. He wasn't entirely sure if they worked, seeing as he had done little of the kind before, but by the accounts of the nursemaids and Gaius, who had also been unconvinced of the infant's survival, the poultices of magically-enhanced herbs seemed to be doing Gwen well...if the all-around glow about her was anything to go by.

"So far," she was saying, "I think they are right. And I have you to thank for that."

Merlin started. "It wasn't me—"

"You were there," Gwen interrupted, reaching forward to take Merlin's hand. "You went with the knights, with Arthur, and you were there." She laughed lightly. "Don't try to demean your achievements, Merlin. You are a wonderful, brave man, and you should be proud of it. Neither Arthur nor I would be alive but for you. Remember that."

Ψ Ѫ Ψ

Merlin had a casual yet thoughtful stance as he stood at the battlements overlooking the city. Arthur approached on catlike feet, hands already clawed and ready for strangling, but then his servant called over his shoulder, "Don't even bother, Arthur."

The king blinked, then lowered his hands and grinned smugly. "I guess Gaius was wrong – it seems that you _were_ affected by the vampyre bite. You heard me coming."

"No. I just know you too well."

Arthur harrumphed and came to lean against the crenellations with his servant. There was a soothing breeze, upon which rode a homey scent of woodsmoke. It ruffled the king's hair as he inhaled deeply.

"Some game, eh?" he said, squinting in the sun. It was Merlin's turn to snort.

"Game? More like _nightmare_."

Arthur grinned, chuckling lightly. "Vampyres, daemons and necromancers. What's next? Werewolves?"

"The apocalypse."

"Ah."

"But what have we to fear, eh? We can always call Bain back." The servant shrugged nonchalantly.

"Yeah, he can scare our enemies away with his poetry."

A goofy grin stole Merlin's features, but he said nothing. He scratched his neck, and Arthur's hand rose unbidden to do the same. His fingers brushed over the raised scars that had yet to fade, then he shook his head, his hand falling to the pommel of _Excalibur_.

"All will be well," he said.

**Ӎεӷȴįŋ**


End file.
